WHEN IS IT A MISTAKE TO POINT OUT A MISTAKE?

Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new. (Albert Einstein)

I am a left-handed dyslexic.  Can it get any worse than that?

Answer:  Yes it can, especially when you live in a world that aspires to, and expects, perfection -- in others.

Souls like me have to be philosophical about the mistakes we make.  I have a perhaps unusual view of perfection.  I strive for it, but never quite attain it.  I accept the fact that I am prone to making mistakes and leave myself wide open to that potential every time I sit down to write something, which is numerous times in a day, or tackle any kind of job that requires manual dexterity.

If I was afraid of making a mistake, I doubt if I would ever undertake anything in life.  It does not take much for me to have pride in both authorship and  workmanship.  The fact that I have totally applied myself to a task, doing my level best, overrides any warts or wrinkles that may ultimately surface in my work.

I have no trouble living with imperfection, in fact to me it is a fact of life.  Little flaws do not trouble me as long as they are easily overlooked or patched up and do no harm in the overall scheme of things.  It is not the same with some people who can pick out a flaw a mile away and have no qualms about drawing it to your attention.

It often comes back to bite me you-know-where, but I am inclined to overlook the mistakes of others because I know how easy it is to slip up or to make an unconscious error.  It has to be a major faux pas, generally one that is personally disadvantageous, for me to react unfavorably.  If I am privy to a mistake that is a harmless one that does not necessarily alter the course of my world, I will let it pass.

While I do not go around looking for the mistakes of others, I also do not issue open invitations for others to point out errors that I may have made.  I am of a rather sensitive nature and easily embarrassed and frustrated when errors are brought to my attention and I always appreciate a kind, constructive, cushioning approach when someone does deem it necessary to correct me.  To have mistakes pointed out just for the sake of pointing them out, is an affront that more often than not is simply annoying.  I am sure that most people look at it that way.

Why then, are there those who feel compelled to point out the mistakes of others?  I am of the opinion that there are a number of reasons:

• They may think that they are being helpful, interesting or impressive by pointing out some one's mistake. They're not considering that the correction may not be welcomed nor appropriate at that time.
• They may have a mentality where it just feels 'wrong' to let a mistake slide. They may feel they just have to say something, and get a sense that they're restoring balance to the universe by sharing the Truth with others.
• Some people may get a little ego boost from being knowledgeable, knowing more than someone else, and getting to show it.
• Some people may correct others out of a sense of intellectual competitiveness. By pointing out some one's mistake they feel 'one up' over them.

It is interesting to note that the Muslim religion places emphasis on the issues and considerations to be made before and when dealing with and correcting the mistakes of others, i.e.: "When correcting the mistakes of others, it is essential that one's intentions be to earn the pleasure of Allah, not to demonstrate superiority or to vent one's anger or to impress others." 

There is a message there for all of us.

A TRIBUTE TO CHURCH LADIES PAST AND PRESENT

I have received a special request to re-produce one of my earliest posts on Wrights Lane.  "The Church Ladies" was/is one of my favorite subjects, but unfortunately Google inadvertently wiped it out of my archives along with 33 other posts, about three years ago.  I wanted to use "The Church Ladies" item in my book Wrights Lane...Come On In and ended up having to rewrite the story from memory.  Here is the re-worked version, with the addition of a few photographs  from the 1950-70 period that will suitably compliment the story. 

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My mother Grace, seated, with IODE friends (from the left) Betty Spearman, Dorothy Rigsby and Isabele Wismer at an IODE meeting in London.  Circa 1970s.

I have fond memories of my early exposure to  the wonderful work of "women of the church".  Regardless of denomination, the faithfulness and commitment of women's organizations have, without question, been the life blood of all communities and their churches across our nation.

At a very early age, I came to realize what women of the church really stood for, be they auxiliaries, societies, ladies aid or missionary groups.  The Imperial Order Daughters of the Empire (IODE) was an all-inclusive group in my hometown of Dresden, bringing together women from all churches, and continues as well to have a special place in my heart to this day.

In the early 1940s, I remember very clearly being relegated to my upstairs bedroom on evenings when my mother hosted church group meetings and gatherings of the IODE.  I would curl up on the floor with my ear cupped to the metal grate that allowed warm air from downstairs to circulate to the unheated upper floor level.  I would listen to what was transpiring in the parlour and living room below -- the prayers, God Save the Queen, hymns, committee reports, updates on care packages and those coarse woolen khaki socks and mitts so lovingly knit by the ladies for the troops ("our boys") overseas in World War Two.  Of course, there would always be at least one fund-raising program on the agenda to help bolster organization and church coffers.

I was able to put a face to every voice that came up through that dusty grate and I was fascinated by what was being said and who was saying it:  Several school teachers, the banker's wife, a nurse, my Aunt Hattie, several of my best friends' mothers, a druggist's wife, a farm lady who delivered eggs to us every Thursday, a choir leader with her unmistakable laugh, a minister's wife with her quiet voice of reason, occasionally my mother -- the collective face and voice of mission and outreach in churches and communities small and large, around the globe.

Looking back now, maybe I was hard-pressed for entertainment.  Maybe I was just curious -- maybe a combination of the two.  Remember that there were no televisions, i-pads, computers or cell phones in kids' bedrooms in those day.  Certainly, it was a different era and I am glad that I was brought up in it.  At that impressionable age I came to understand how the efforts of a small group of women in small-town Southwestern Ontario, could have such a far-reaching impact.

With the impression of the grate well embedded in my cheek, I would generally drift off to sleep just as tea cups began to tinkle amidst the soft din of female conversation at the conclusion of the business portion of the meetings.  All was right with my world.  I could depend that there would be leftover peanut butter cookies and at least one date square put aside for me next day, several of the ladies would always see to it.  I was warm and secure.  God was in Heaven and "The Church Lades" had everything under control.

Fond memories all, and an appreciation for the work that church women and organizations like the IODE have continued over the decades with much dedication and little fanfare.  I dare say that there are no inquisitive little boys eavesdropping on meetings these days, but it goes without saying that God has an ear to His Heavenly "grate" and He blesses all church women for what He is hearing.

IODE members always had a special birthday gift for seniors in Dresden area nursing homes.  Accompanying my mother for this presentation was IODE member Doris Dusten (right).

LET'S BE COGNIZANT OF TRUE FRIENDSHIP

In an age where liberties are taken with almost everything, I resist the misguided impulse to apologize for being a literalist in interpretation and use of the word "friend".

Someone once said: "Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity."  The world is full of people who claim to know other people, to in fact be their friend, yet it is debatable how much they really know one another.  It is my opinion that we have cheapened the true meaning of friendship by applying it so easily and loosely, regardless of motivation.

I am thinking, in particular, about the popular social networks of today where a good majority of people requesting "friendship" are doing so primarily to build massive lists of "friends" for the purpose of subtly marketing something (special interests, products, services).

Of course, ego and the satisfaction in building up long lists of so-called friends (or followers), enters into the equation too; but that's a totally different story.

Personally, I have confined my small list of friends on Facebook to those I truly know and care about.  Most have joined me on Facebook because the feeling is mutual.  We share a commonality of interest that I truly respect.

Be honest now -- how often do we misuse or misapply the word "friend"?   We call remote acquaintances friends (even those we have never met, in some cases) and it is only when we understand that they care very little for us, that we begin to wonder whether we have given them the title too freely.  Who is kidding who, you might ask?   Is there a difference between a "good friend" and someone simply labelled a "friend"?

Who is really looking out for your best interests in life?  Who is sticking with you through thick and thin?  Who will be there for you in times of need?  That is the person you should feel proud to call your "friend" in every sense of the word. That person more often than not would be your life's companion, to my way of thinking.

Opportunity finds its way into everything in life but it is misleading when it takes the misinterpreted form of "friendship".  Facebook, especially, has to come up with a more apt catch-all term for network connections.

MY DAD KEN "CLIPPED" DETROIT GANGSTERS IN THE 1920s AND WAS WELL PAID FOR IT TOO

The Detroit River, representing the border between Ontario and the United States, has always been one of the busiest waterways in the world, with freighters bringing iron ore from Michigan's Upper Peninsula to the bustling automobile factories of the Motor City. Timber barges from northern Michigan and Wisconsin pass through the narrow waterway which separates Windsor and Detroit, Michigan en route to Lake Erie and the East Coast and hordes of recreational boaters and weekend fishermen use the river for their pleasure.  In the winter, traffic on the narrow flow (less than a mile across in some places) comes to a halt as the river freezes over.

During Prohibition, rum runners and bootleggers used the frozen river as an easy way to get booze from Canada into the United States. From Detroit, liquor went to Chicago (where Al Capone sold it under his "Log Cabin" label), St. Louis, and points west.  It was a well-known fact that if you were bringing a load of hooch across the Detroit River that you had better show up armed to the teeth. There was no denying that in the 1920s, Detroit belonged to the Purple Gang, a group of killers and thugs as vicious and bloodthirsty as any racketeer in New York or Chicago.

The "Purples" ran the rackets in Detroit for much of the 1920s and early 30s until the Syndicate boys from back east moved in and wrested control from a gang that had seen its numbers decimated by infighting and prosecution. Detroit may not have been New York, but make no mistake: the Purple Gang was tough. They were strong enough to tell Capone to keep his mitts off eastern Michigan and managed to hold on to control of most of the state when Scarface was at his peak. Capone coveted Detroit, with its huge number of hardworking, hard-drinking laborers, but wisely decided it was better to buy booze from the Purple Gang than to fight them.

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There's no story like an old story, but what good are stories of any kind if they are not shared.  I honestly think that there is only one thing better than an old story and that's two old stories.

Here are a couple of favorite oldies that involve my father Ken in the swinging and notoriously raucous era of the 1920s.

On completing his apprenticeship in barbering in the early '20s, Ken packed his bags and left his widowed mother and the quiet, close-knit community of Dresden in favor of the bright lights of Detroit, where he had secured a job as one of four barbers at the newly-built Detroiter Hotel.  It would be the beginning of a whole new world for the laid-back, God-fearing, young writer of poetry who had hardly ever been beyond the limits of rural Kent County in all his 23 years.

The Detroiter Hotel was renamed The La Salle shortly after four murders in 1930.

The first couple of months at the Detroiter were relatively uneventful for the young Dresden barber and he quickly became comfortable in his new big city surroundings.  He was taken aback, however, when he began to notice that many of his new customers were wearing shoulder pistol harnesses under their suit coats.  No one had told him that the infamous Purple Gang had adopted the Detroiter as their headquarters shortly after its opening in 1926.

Ken did not have to be told what was good for him...The message was loud and clear:  Just cut hair and turn a deaf ear to anything that was said.  This was one venue where barbers were not the customary conversationalists. Beyond pleasantries of the day, no questions were ever asked of customers.

The good news in all of this for Ken was that Purple Gang members were very good tippers, often handing over a five-spot for a two-bit haircut and shave.  Before long gang members were waiting for his chair to be empty not only because they liked the way he cut hair but they also knew he was not a "talker" outside of the hotel.  His tips were more than enough to cover living expenses and he was able to bank all of his regular pay cheque each week.


One of Ken's new acquaintances and first customer at the hotel was a chap by the name of Jerry Buckley who was an enormously popular Detroit radio show host considered to be a champion of the common man, and he often crusaded on air against organized crime. Jerry had his studio on the mezzanine of the Detroiter. On July 23, 1930, he was gunned down in the lobby of the hotel. The murder came on the same day that voters opted to recall Mayor Charles Bowles on the grounds that he had done so little in fighting organized crime. Buckley was a vocal critic of Bowles on the air.


The bullets flew shortly after Buckley had finished a broadcast. He walked down the stairs from the mezzanine and was reading a newspaper in a lobby chair when three men entered the hotel. One stood by the door; the other two walked over to Buckley. Witnesses at the time said Buckley seemed to rise in recognition when the two men unloaded 12 shots. Only one bullet missed.

Many thought the killing was the work of none other than the Purple Gang upset by his radio attacks calling for a crackdown on mobsters. Other theories said the killing was politically motivated or the result of his rumored shady dealings in the Detroit underworld. It has since become accepted that Buckley had links to mob bosses and was killed because he was planning on going to the police. About 150,000 people attended his funeral. His murder was never solved, and the hotel carried the stigma of being a violent and shady place overrun by gangsters.

Buckley was not the only person to meet a gruesome end at the hotel around that time. A cigarette girl and manicurist either jumped or was thrown from the roof of the Detoiter, and only one week before Buckley was killed, two drug peddlers were gunned down out front.


My dad always contended that the cigarette girl, who worked beside him as a part-time manicurist, was a little too friendly with her clientele and knew too much for her own good.  There was no question in his mind that she had been encouraged off the hotel's roof.

The gun smoke had barely cleared at the corner of Woodward Avenue and Adelaide Street when he very wisely gave up his lucrative barbering chair at the Detroiter, soon to be renamed the La Salle Hotel.  He had a job waiting for him at Hudson's departmental store where a certain young lady, also from Dresden, worked in the women's hosiery department.  He didn't make as much money barbering at Hudson's, but life was a lot less stressful and considerably more pleasant.

Ken had pretty good dukes too

As a young lad growing up, Ken was interested in the art of self defense, particularly boxing and jujitsu.  He sent away for as much information on martial arts as he could get his hands on and trained on his own.  He formed a small group of equally interested friends in Dresden at one time and eventually trained several boxing prospects in later years, including his son.

His time in Detroit in the 1920s and '30s coincided with a boxing surge in the Motor City.  Jack Dempsey was heavyweight champion in those days and Joe Louis was an up-and-comer.  Ken frequented the Kronk gym in Detroit to watch boxers in training and to workout on the speed and heavy bags when there was an opening.  At five-foot-ten and 165 pounds soaking wet, he had no intentions of ever stepping into the ring competitively.  He had exceptionally long, strong arms for his size though and often performed fetes of strength for admiring customers in the barbershop at The Detroiter.  He often attended Friday night prize fights at the new Olympia, later to be known as Detroit's "Old Red Barn", the home of the city's fabled National Hockey League team, the Red Wings.

Ken, ready to step into the ring

?

As a preliminary exhibition feature to the Friday night fights, handlers of a rotund heavyweight known only as "The Killer" would offer anyone from the audience $20.00 if they could last two five-minute rounds with the human beast.  The Killer was reportedly undefeated in his ring career and was prowling the canvas and intimidating onlookers one particular night because there were no takers brave enough to face him for the required two rounds.

Three friends who had accompanied my dad to the Olympia that evening, began to chant "over here, over here" while pushing their unwilling Canadian buddy to ringside.  Finally relenting to the insistence of his friends, Ken parted the ropes and climbed into the ring.

Ring assistants pushed a pair of well-padded boxing gloves on to Ken's outstretched hands and laughingly wished the totally unprepared wisp of a challenger good luck.


Before he knew it, there he was in the centre of the ring staring into the eyes of an expressionless "Killer" chafing at the bit to have his way with another hapless, living-dangerously victim.  Dressed only in his street clothes and with no protection whatsoever, Ken answered the bell by warding off several wild hay maker punches thrown by the Killer. He tried to counter with a few lunging right jabs of his own, but his smooth Oxford clad feet slipped hopelessly on the ring's slick canvas surface.  Two minutes into the round, it was obvious to Ken that if he was to survive the first five minutes, he would have to fall into a defensive mode.  He bobbed, weaved, danced and frequently slipped his way through the next three minutes, much to the frustration of the Killer who could not connect with his elusive target.


Round One ended with the crowd wildly cheering the slight-of-build challenger who was surprisingly unscathed and still standing after five minutes.   Before he returned to his corner, Ken surprised everyone by making his way directly to the opposite side of the ring where he methodically and intentionally stepped into a resin box that was intended for The Killer's use only.


"Hey, what do you think you are doing?" screamed Killer's handlers.  But it was too late, Ken's mission was successful.  He had picked up enough resin on the soles of his Oxfords to give him more secure footing on the canvas.

The bell sounded for the second round and the two pugilists --  one hulking and towering and the other smaller and crouched tentatively -- met at centre ring.  The overly confident Killer's guard was carelessly and momentarily down and Ken, with his feet now planted firmly on the canvas thanks to the resin, lashed out with a stinging left to the nose of his opponent followed by a crushing right to the jaw.

The Killer dropped to one knee, blood spurting profusely from a nose that was flattened all over his face.  A few seconds later and it was game over.  A ringside doctor was unable to stop the bleeding and the round was called off.  Ken's friends stormed the ring, elevating him to their shoulders as the crowd applauded in approval.

When the excitement of the upset finally subsided, Ken was informed that he would not be awarded the promised $20.00 prize because of the medical expense that would be incurred by The Killer in having his nose put back in place.  The Killer's handlers eventually had a change of heart and handed over a $20 bill only after seducing my dad and his friends into promising that they would never again show up at the Olympia with thoughts of taking on The Killer. 


Later that evening when Ken showed up on the doorstep of his soon-to-be in-laws' house, he received the tongue lashing of his life for being so foolish and putting himself at risk.  The bouquet of flowers and box of Saunder's chocolates that he brought along with him did not have the intended impact.  Unimpressed, my mother always had a way of delivering a verbal knockout punch of her own.

I think she would have given The Killer a run for his money too.

THE JOBS I'VE HAD, AMONG MANY OTHER THINGS THAT MY BLOGGER PROFILE DOES NOT SHOW

Unlike the past, where I get ideas for Wrights Lane while mowing the lawn, a mixed-bag of thoughts crossed my mind this morning as I was raking up a yard ankle-deep in leaves. The month of October is the only time during the year that I question my fondness of trees.  With every passing fall that fondness wanes just a little more.

A regular daily fortification of glucosamine and ibuprofen was not sufficient to ease the pain and agony associated with each armful of leaves that I tossed into my truck a few hours ago. Over and over again, I wondered if I would be up to this annual fall task again next year.  I thought, probably not; but stubbornness enabled me to see this particular job through to an uncomfortable and dubious end.

It had taken me the equivalent of four days to complete the chore this year, compared to the less than four hours that it had taken me in the past. "Why am I wearing out so fast?" I had to ask myself.  After a lifetime of high energy multi-tasking, I had to concede:  "I am now an old man."  Like it or not, this is my destiny.

My mind lapsed into flashback mode, like a reel of film rolling back the years and pausing momentarily and frequently on the almost countless number of things that I have done in my life -- jobs, activities, special interests -- and what it took on occasion to simultaneously juggle three and four of these involvements. One job never seemed good enough for me.  I always had to have "other irons in the fire", as I explained it. The endurance that was required amazes even me, especially now when any form of mental or physical stamina has gone bye-bye.  I honestly do not know where I got the wherewithal to take on so much.  I have never talked publicly about this over-riding compulsion for change and my need to continually try new, sometimes unorthodox things.

I really do not know if it was an unexplained need to experience as much as possible in one lifetime or an undiagnosed bi-polar disorder the caused me to jump from one challenge to another, but I began questioning very early in the game what it was that really made me tick.  About 55 years ago I announced to my mother that I thought I should consult a psychiatrist and her spontaneous response was:  "Oh sure, and the first thing that he will say is what a terrible mother you have had.  He'll want to talk about your childhood and it will all end up being my fault...You had a happy, loving childhood, in case you forgot. So don't even go there."

"Okay, Grace.  Thanks for reminding me!" I responded with customary tongue-in-cheek discretion.

I actually saw a psychiatrist in Toronto a year or two later and after the first appointment he sent me a letter explaining that he was retiring from his practise and would be unable to see me again.  In that one and only appointment we talked about my childhood, but I never breathed a word of it to my overly reactionary mother.  And I never again mustered up the courage to sit on another psychiatrist's couch.

But, back to that aforementioned flashback while raking up leaves this morning.  Here is a retrospective list of jobs that my mind's film rolled out for me.

• My first after-school job in a men's clothing store, at 14 years of age..
• A short-lived stint in professional baseball in the U.S.A.
• My first full-time job with Jack Fraser Stores in St. Thomas, Chatham and Toronto.
• Completed two-year business management course by correspondence.
• Initiated a part-time janitorial business in St. Thomas.
• Cub reporter, sports editor and managing editor for four Canadian daily newspapers (St. Thomas, Simcoe, Prince Albert and Brampton) over a 20-year period.
• Set up of a second part-time janitorial business exclusively for a board of education headquarters.
• Accepted part-time free-lance writing assignments from several business publications.
• Took a year-long hiatus from newspapering to sell office furniture and equipment in the London area.
• Worked evenings and weekends at a major department store in London,
• Officiated in baseball and hockey for token reimbursement.
• Was paid secretary-statistician for the Niagara District Senior Hockey League.
• Joined Insurance Bureau of Canada as media relations manager, then public affairs director.
• Bought into a Kid's Toys distributorship in the Toronto area, operating out of my home in spare time. 
• Worked evenings and weekends as a security officer in the Toronto area.
• Obtained another part-time distributorship selling Herbalife health food products.
• Joined the Ontario Trucking Association as director of public relations and human resources.
• Affiliated with a new Toronto area security company as a night shift supervisor, in addition to my full-time job with O.T.A.
• Became a free-lance public relations consultant, producing a syndicated monthly industrial newsletter.
• Managed a team of young people selling subscriptions to the Toronto Star.
• Joined several friends in a public relations agency catering to the junior mining industry in Canada.
• Worked in landscaping after premature semi-retirement due to the need to free up time and to be closer to home during late wife's struggle with cancer.
• At the same time, became a part-time car jockey for Avis Rent-A-Car at Pearson International Airport. 
• Sold cemetery plots part-time, close to home in Brampton.
• Associated with the owner of Kipling Medical Laboratories in Toronto, first in charge of property security and finally as warehouse and delivery manager.
• Continued to take on free-lance writing assignments for several journals in the United States.
• Joined Naylor Publishing as a telemarketer, probably the most ill-advised undertaking of my life.
• Became a sub-contractor for Consumers Gas, reading meters in Mississauga, Oakville, Burlington and Brampton area.  Also assigned to an on-going "gas leak" survey in the Region of Peel.
• Suited up as Santa Claus at a major shopping centre, also appeared at numerous company Christmas functions as a Santa for-hire.
• After the passing of wife Anne, eventually went to work with Brampton Chrysler as used car lot maintenance manager with responsibility for special customer transportation needs.
• Served as a lay preacher (Presbyterian Church) for a two-year period in the two-point charge of Port Elgin-Burgoyne.
• Most recently set up an ill-fated on-line marketing company, before deciding that I had been drained of what little entrepreneurial blood was left flowing through my veins.

All of that on top of belonging to a number of service clubs and business associations, organizing and coaching minor baseball and hockey in three communities, serving as president of a figure skating club and  several minor baseball associations for both boys and girls; managing a Junior "C" hockey team in Simcoe and Junior and Intermediate baseball teams in St. Thomas, singing with the Gilbert and Sullivan Society in Toronto as well as a number of choirs and barbershop groups, attending university night classes as a mature student, obtaining accreditation (APR) from the Canadian Public Relations Society, belonging to a little theatre company, being a Big Brothers and Boy Scouts leader, taking on motivational speaking engagements, serving as a Sunday School teacher and church elder, sitting on numerous municipal boards and organizations, being the founding president of the Community Crime Prevention Network (Canada), founding president and organizer of a neighbor outreach program for seven churches in Brampton and writing three books, just to mention a few of the involvements over the years that instantly come to mind.

The jury is still out on how good a husband and father I was during the lion's share of those years, but it is not for me to speculate.  I can honestly say, however, that I tried my best under some difficult, pre-occupied and self-inflicted circumstances to be a responsible and sensitive family provider.

Truthfully, I cannot say if it was worth spreading myself so thin and burning the candle at both ends for so much of my life.  It all seems like the blurred obsession of another life, over which I had no control. What was I trying to prove, you ask?  Dunno!  Two things I do know, however, 1) I lost a lot of sleep over the years and 2) paid the government a lot in the form of income taxes; and, oh yes, a third thing -- I have nothing personally to show for any of this.  Would I do anything differently, if I had it to do all over again?  Let me count the ways!  But that's life.  Live and learn.  We do what we think is right at the time. I just took on more than the healthy and normal average of things that one feels compelled to do in a life time.

After almost completing this post, I have also become aware of a fourth conclusion...I am feeling worn out in these twilight days because, quite frankly, I have worn myself out.  Plain and simple. It was bound to happen sooner or later.  It just never occurred to me until now.

Knowing me as I do, I'll no doubt keep on plugging as best I can, for as long as I can.  Hell, I'll probably even tackle those damned leaves again next fall, and like it even less.

My mother would be very relieved to know too that she was in no way to be blamed for what transpired in my life.  I have no one to "blame" but myself.  In many ways, I guess you could say that I am a self-made man -- for better or worse.

I would still be interested in seeing a psychiatrist though, if for no other reasons than finally finding out what makes me tick.  Only trouble is, there is a good chance he wouldn't believe me.

THE PERILS OF OPENING A NEW TOOTH BRUSH

Rosanne stuggling unsuccessfully to take a new tooth brush out of its packaging:


"Why do they make these things so difficult to open?  What are seniors supposed to do if they don't have a husband, or anything?

Famous Failures Movie

Sometimes in life when you think about what you should be accomplishing and what you could have achieved, it can really fill you with a sense of pain and shame. We all come up against obstacles to achieving our goals...but when you hear success stories of people who overcame numerous setbacks before finally achieving success and fame, it somehow gives us hope about ourselves.  There is something gratifying in hearing about, and sharing, the success of others.

A few posts ago I talked about Arielle Ford, a woman I had come to admire.  This link will introduce to readers of Wrights Lane a wonderfully inspiring video program Arielle has just launched and hopes to share with as many people as possible.  It doesn't cost a cent.  To view just click your cursor on the title "Famous Failures Movie", above.

GOD VERSUS US, WHO IS ABANDONING WHO?

In the almost four years that I have been publishing stories and musings on Wrights Lane, I have intentionally avoided imposing my religious beliefs, as limited as they may be, on readers.  I have preferred, instead, to pass along ecumenical food for thought from time to time that I trust might be of relative interest.  I hope that the following will be accepted in that light.


I began to take more than a passing interest in the late Charles Templeton (1915-2001) about 40 years ago and that interest peaked in 1977 when I received an advanced review copy of  "Act of God", published by McClelland and Stewart Limited of Toronto, when I was managing editor of the Brampton Daily Times.  At the time, Jack McClelland predicted a bestseller and suggested that my advanced copy would eventually have value as a collectors' item.  To this day, the novel  "Act of God" by Charles Templeton remains one of the most interesting and imaginative books that I have ever read.  I'm taking Jack at his word and giving the review edition special care.


For me personally, Templeton was likewise, the most interesting Canadian cartoonist, evangelist, agnostic, politician, newspaper editor, inventor, broadcaster and author (no kidding) in my experience -- and definitely the most complicated and contradictory.  Truly gifted in everything he turned his mind to, Templeton was a well-known evangelical church leader who turned his back on God while still in the ministry.  He became an agnostic who took opportunity to publicly attack Christianity through his many connections in the press and broadcast industries.


Sadly, he had just finished writing his last book entitled "Farewell to God" when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. In "Farewell to God", he made the claim:  "I oppose the Christian Church because, for all the good it sometimes does, it presumes to speak in the name of God and to propound and advocate beliefs that are outdated, demonstrably untrue, and often, in their manifestations. deleterious  to individuals and to society."


Soon after release of the controversial book, old friend Billy Graham, aware of his illness, called Templeton in an attempt to persuade him to re-read the New Testament Gospel before he could no longer seriously consider his eternal destiny.  Templeton, of course, refused, saying he had been there and done that.


This all begs the question in my mind:  As Templeton abandoned God publicly and privately, did God abandon him?


Unless I am wrong, I do not know that God holds a hammer over any one's head.  If you insist on turning your back on Christian roots and beliefs, He will most certainly let you go and leave you to yourself to sink or swim in life.  As Anne Graham Lotz suggests, "the most frightening form of judgment is not necessarily fire falling from heaven or the earth opening up to swallow you, but God removing himself from your life."


One of the most solemn thoughts about our current condition in North America is the seemingly unsolvable problems of race, immorality, drugs, and our insistence on separation of church and state to the extreme.  Are these social issues, combined with increasing environmental problems, a direct result of a concerted effort to remove the name of God from our public life?  Is God giving us the freedom to destroy ourselves?


When we ignore God in our private lives, does He likewise ignore us?


I'm just saying...

May every soul that touches mine,
Be it the slightest contact,
Get therefore some good:
Some little grace; one kindly thought;
One aspiration yet unfelt;
One bit of courage
For the darkening sky;
One gleam of faith
To brave the thickening ills of life;
One glimpse of brighter skies
Beyond the gathering mists
To make this life worthwhile...

...I am not perfect dear friend,
Forgive me if I have failed!

GOOD OLD HARVEY HELPED EASE THE PAIN OF A VERY COSTLY MISTAKE BY ME THE NOVICE

I think often about people who left a favorablle impression on me as a young lad struggling to make his way in the world.  I have written about two or three of them in past Wrights Lane posts.  Their kindness and caring has served me well and will never be forgotten.  I honor their memory.


For some unknown reason this morning I woke up thinking about a gentleman by the name of Harvey Galloway from my days in the mens' clothing business in the late 1950s. It is easy to remember the cigar-smoking Harvey who was rather gruff on the outside, but a pussy cat on the inside.  He was a natty dresser and a haberdasher of the old school.  He had a knack of beating all of us to 90 per cent of the customers coming through the front door, which accounted for the fact that he would collect commission cheques most months and why the rest of us rarely did. 


It took a while, but Harvey and I developed a genuine liking for each other.  He the 70-year-old mentor and me the 20-year-old novice just starting to get his feet wet in the business. We had some pretty amazing chats, the like of which you would have with a father or favorite uncle.  Harvey and his dear wife never did have children and I think that in some small way I filled a void.


Three of us, Harvey, me and Danny Clibborn, worked regularly on the floor of the Jack Fraser Store in St. Thomas.  Harvey was responsible for the clothing department (suits, sports jackets and overcoats), Danny the work goods section (jeans, overalls, work shirts) and boys wear, while I was in charge of furnishings (dress, shirts, sports shirts, ties, socks, underwear, windbreaker jackets, hats and caps).  We were permitted to sell in all sections of the store, providing the person in charge of the particular department was otherwise occupied.


I took special training in the art of tailoring and was awarded second call in the "clothing" department which is where I found myself one day serving a very short, portly customer who was interested in a made-to-measure suit.  Having selected a cloth sample to his liking, I proceeded to take very careful measurements of his 40-inch chest, 42-inch waist and very short 26-inch leg inseam.  Special care was given his choice of styles for both the coat (wing lapel, two-button doubled breasted) and trousers (no pleats, set side pockets, no cuffs).  The gentleman explained that he generally wore out pants quicker than jackets and that he would like to order two extra pairs of matching trousers to go with his suit.


After the gentleman and his wife left the store, I diligently doubled-checked his made-to-measure order form and duly sent it off to Shiffer-Hillman Tailors in Toronto.


The suit arrived in the customary three weeks time and my customer anxiously came in to try it on.  On exiting the fitting room I was momentarily elated to hear him say that "everything fits just fine -- but I have a problem with the pockets on the pants".  My heart sank to my shoes as a "full top" pocket was revealed and not the "set side" pocket style that I thought I had ticked off on the order form. 


But, sure enough, there it was in black and white on the order form...I had checked off the wrong box.   

Set side pocket

Full slant pocket

Traditionally, the front pocket opening on a pair of dress trousers is a straight up-and-down slit, usually with no or very minimal hemming. This is to reduce its visual impact, hiding the fact that there is a pocket there at all as much as possible. Slanted pockets, particularly with a distinctive hem, are more casual but still appropriate on most trouser *(see accompanying illustrations).  You will almost never see the scooped style of jeans pockets on dress pants, outside of the occasional pair of corduroys or similar dress-casual wear.


Understandably disappointed, the customer said he did not think that he could adjust to the full top pocket, and I had to agree.  Because it was my inadvertent error, I offered to order three more sets of trousers with the correct pocket style and the gentleman agreed.  I then had the unsavory task of explaining to store manager Gordon Fox what had transpired.


Gordon approved the second order but said that I would have to pay for it out of my own pocket.  A $60.00 charge (more than one week's wages) was subsequently added to my staff account and the odd-sized trousers were placed in stock in the hope of selling them to another over-sized midget, if there ever was another.  I suppose I could have kept the trousers myself and worn them in place of peddal-pusher shorts in the summer but I was only a 34-inch waist back then, so that was out of the question. 


Shortly after the pocket debacle, I was called in to head office in Toronto for another 20-month training period.  After that I worked in the Chatham branch store for the better part of a year before being transferred back to St. Thomas again, almost three years later. 


One of the first things I did when arriving back in the St. Thomas store was to rather reluctantly check the pants rack to see if those jinxed three pairs of trousers were still there after all that time, and sure enough they were with the same $29.95 price tags intact.  A costly and ugly reminder of a stupid mistake that I never made again.


Some time later, on a busy Saturday in the store, I overheard Harvey talking to a familiar figure partially hidden behind a coat rack.  It was my old suit customer of three years prior and Harvey was explaining that the man's rejected trousers were still in stock and that he didn't think that it was fair that I had to pay for the replacement order.  "They will fit you perfectly and if nothing else they will make good work trousers for you," Harvey convincingly suggested.  "Tell you what, I think that we would gladly take $30.00 for all three pairs and we'll be doing everybody a favor."  The man said that he had no idea that I would be required to pay for the mistake and readily agreed to the "buy of the century" giving me a sheepish smile and a knowing thumbs up from across the store.  I'll guarantee that's one suit where his coat did not outlast the trousers (all six pairs).


I noticed that Harvey did not ring in the sale and we both went about serving other customers.  At closing time a few hours later that evening, Harvey pushed three $10.00 bills into my shirt pocket.  "Here, this belongs to you young fella.  I always felt bad that you had to pay.  It was not right.  Hope this makes up for some of it."  I thanked my old friend profusely.  I couldn't say much because of a lump in my throat.


After the passing of his wife, Harvey retired but continued to work part-time in the store a few hours a week and spent the last year of his life in a St. Thomas nursing home.  The last time were were together, I was several years removed from the clothing business and he was a guest in my home where my late wife Anne treated him (us) to his favorite roast beef dinner and lemon meringue pie.


It's been a long time, but in reflective moods I still miss old Harvey who went out of his way to ease the discomfort of a costly mistake by a "young fella" who never forgot his kindness.


I still get a lump in my throat too.

DEAL WITH THE TRUTH, DON'T POSTPONE IT

Sometimes we feel we simply cannot bear to know the truth about a certain situation in our life.  We fear a matter so much, we ultimately decide that the best way to protect ourselves from it, is to ignore it.  If we keep acting as if everything is fine, the hope is that perhaps somehow, magically, the issue will work itself out satisfactorily.

If we are lucky, we may never get to the moment where we have to confront an uncomfortable reality, right?.  There is just one problem with such an attitude, however.  It forces us to go blindly through life and leaves us vulnerable.  So bravely take the bull by the horns, my friends.  Tackle the issue head on -- the sooner the better.  You need fear nothing, save fear itself, and even that will vanish once you take charge of the truth.

How well I know this to be true!

I HAD "THE SECRET" AND DIDN'T EVEN KNOW IT

This from the library of my father Kenneth Wright, 1899-1952:  "In Tune With The Infinite" was written by Ralph Waldo Trine and published in 1897.  It is interesting to see in this publication, remarkable similarities to the much-hyped, multi-million dollar program The Secret which was introduced more than 100 years later.  The Secret is a best-selling 2006 self-help book written by Rhonda Byrne, based on the earlier film of the same name and released in DVD format.  I paid quite a bit of money for the DVD several years ago, little knowing at the time that I had "The Secret" for free in the form of a dust-covered, musty old 222-page book that was within an arm's reach in my study.

"Secret" be damned, there is nothing new under the sun! See what you think from this Preface by Trine, written in typical 1800s style, as just a sample of his thesis.  Wonder where Byrne got her inspiration?

Ralph Waldo Trine (1866-1958) was a philosopher, mystic, teacher and author of many books, and was one of the early mentors of the New Thought Movement.  

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

"There is a golden thread that runs through every religion in the world.  There is a golden thread that runs through the lives and the teachings of all the prophets, seers, sages, and saviors in the world's history, through the lives of all men and women of truly great and lasting power.  All that they have ever done or attained to has been done in full accordance with law.  What one has done, all may do.

"This same golden thread must enter into the lives of all who today, in this busy work-a-day world of ours, would exchange impotence for power, weakness and suffering for abounding health and strength, pain and unrest for perfect peace, poverty of whatever nature for fullness and plenty.

"Each is building his own world.  We both build from within and we *attract from without.  Thought is the force with which we build, for thoughts are forces.  Like builds like and like attracts like.  In the degree that thought is spiritualized does it become more subtle and powerful in its workings.  The spiritualizing is in accordance with law and is within the power of all.

"Everything is first worked out in the unseen before it is manifested in the seen, in the ideal before it is realized in the real, in the spiritual before it shows forth in the material.  The realm of the seen is the realm of effect.  The nature of effect is always determined and conditioned by the nature of its cause.

"To point out the great facts in connection with, and the great laws underlying the workings of the interior, spiritual thought forces, to point them out so simply and so clearly that even a child can understand, is the author's aim.  To point them out so simply and so clearly that all can grasp them, that all can take them and infuse them into every-day life, so as to mould it in all its details in accordance with what they would have it, is his purpose.  That life can be thus moulded by them is not a matter of mere speculation or theory with him, but a matter of positive knowledge.

"There is a Divine sequence running throughout the universe.  Within and above and below the human will incessantly works the Divine will.  To come into harmony with it and thereby with all the higher laws and forces, to come then into league and to work in conjunction with them, in order that they can work in league and in conjunction with us, is to come into the chain of this wonderful sequence.  This is the secret of all success.  This is to come into possession of unknown riches, into the realization of undreamed-of powers."


(*The Law of Attraction, as highly touted in The Secret.)

Truth be known, I was far more impressed with Trine's In Tune With the Infinite than I was with Byrne's extensively marketed and highly commercial The Secret.  I may quote Trine more extensively in future posts, but I leave you with this:


"Within each one lies the cause of whatever comes to him.  Each has it in his own hands to determine what comes.  Everything in the visible, material world has its origin in the unseen, the spiritual, the thought world.  This is the world of cause, the former is the world of effect.  The nature of the effect is always in accordance with the nature of cause. What one lives in his invisible thought world, he is continually actualizing in his visible, material world.  If he would have any conditions different in the latter he must make necessary changes in the former..." 

LET'S NOT LET THE WORLD COLLAPSE AROUND US WITHOUT A UNIFIED STAND FOR CHANGE

As I approach my 500th post on Wrights Lane, I have to admit to a degree of reservation.  For several days I have been weighing the pros and cons of this one in particular, with increasingly heavy emotion.  I do not know where I am going to start nor how I am going to end, and that is not good for someone sitting down to commit words to text.

Realistically, God willing, my life span has another 10-12 years left in it and I feel rather limited in what I can accomplish in that period.  In spite of honorable intentions, I question any meaningful impact that I have had on the world, so why should any of that all of a sudden change in the days ahead?  I feel somewhat helpless and personally incapable in a world that is on the verge of collapsing around us.  I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not alone in what I am feeling.  That is why I am tackling this post in the hope that if I am ever to be taken seriously, if my writing ever stands for anything, may this be the time.

I need not elaborate on the immanent collapse of our economy, taking with it governments and countries. There is the very real threat of a new world order taking over our lives.  We find ourselves in the position of  scrambling for ways to patch damage done to our environment, in many cases too little too late.  We look to governments with poor track records, vying for public favor, yet incapable of providing adequate solutions.

In fact, what we need in our world is not more government, but more freedom. If we had freedom, integrity and personal responsibility, we would not be facing the global collapse that has already begun. But alas, the human race is an infant species and it must learn some lessons the hard way, it seems.

The problems are complex beyond our understanding, and it is not only unlikely that there is a single solution but there may be no solutions at all -- if by “solution” we mean a way to continue human existence on the planet at its current level. We need experiments on every front that will help us imagine new ways of being, and sufficient will to carry out the tasks.

We humans have been given a privileged place in a world that is beautiful beyond description, and we are destroying it and destroying each other. Many of us cope with that by building temporary psychological damns and dikes to hold back our concern. But the emotion comes so powerfully from so many different directions that life feels like a process of constantly patching and moving and rebuilding those damns and dikes. Some of this is intensely personal.  The only way to cope effectively is to use some of the energy we have left in collective efforts to try to build something positive.

There is a lot of individual variation in the human species, which means there will be lots of different reactions as the reality of our predicament sets in. I worry that in a society like North America, where so many have lived for so long with abundance and a sense of entitlement, people will not be able to face up to the dramatic changes that are inevitable. That could lead people to accept greater levels of hierarchy and authority if political leaders promise to protect that affluence. In that case, people’s inability to deal with the emotions that arise out of awareness of collapse could usher in an era of even more unjust distribution of wealth and resources in an even more violent world.

The only way to combat that is to talk openly about what we see coming and work to create conditions that allow us to rely on the best of our nature, not the worst.  The eternal life that we are now living will be well lived if we take good care of each little period of time as it presents itself day after day. If we fail in doing this, we fail in everything.

I honestly feel that we need to be more aware of the need for righteousness in our world today.  When we fully realize this truth we see that it makes but little difference what particular form of religion one holds to, but it does make a tremendous difference how true we are to vital principals.  In the degree that we love self less and love truth more, in the degree that we care less about converting people to our particular way of thinking, all the more will we care to aid them in coming into full realization of truth through channels best adapted to them.

A mass, unified unfolding of souls and disregard for differences is our best chance of fortifying against the threat of collapse in our world today.  We need to put form aside, tear down the fences and reel in prejudices that keep us from coming into the realization of universal truth.  Time and attention must be given to bringing people into a knowledge of their true selves and an understanding of relations with others and of oneness with the Infinite.

No form of government, no corporation, no special interest group, no one world leader, will ever solve all the problems facing us today.  But right thinking people, speaking out and acting in concert, can be a powerful force in bringing about change that is so desperately needed.

Yes, we have our work cut out for us all right.  A lot of soul-searching is required and many changes must be made.  Sacrifice of certain expectations is inevitable. We are all in this together regardless of race, religion, politics or sexual persuasion.  Each one of us has a role to play in our destiny and it is up to us individually to reach out and grasp it before it is too late.

So there you have it.  A start and an ending...And in between idealistic words that some of us may be more capable of accepting and acting on than others.  If nothing else, I hope that at least I've got you thinking. Everything begins with a thought, right!?

United, we stand!  Divided, we fall...And the world collapses along with us, sorry to say!  I can't put it any other way.

LEGEND: GOD THE "BAKER" OF MAN

I have been reading a book, Thunder Out Of China, which was included in my father's rather extensive library.  Published in 1946, authors Theodore White and Annalee Jacoby provided an eye-opening account of how China became a communist state.

In a well-researched chapter, "Campaign in the South Seas", White and Jacoby describe how the white man's arrogant military trampled roughshod over the dignity and culture of the dark-skinned peoples of Asia.  Stories in history tell us of how the Orient was looted of its wealth and how faith was thrust down the gullet of the heathen at the point of a bayonet.  For hundreds of years the bitterness and resentment in Asia had been gradually accumulating against the system and pressure was reaching the volcanic stage.  A not-too subtle movement to humiliate the white man within sight of his slaves, gained momentum with the hope of driving him out of Asia,

An interesting ancient Filipinos legend about how God made the world's first man, was of particular interest to me and just one of many revelations awaiting me in Thunder Out Of China.  As this particular legend has it, God fashioned a man tenderly until every detail was perfect and then put the image into an oven to bake.  He opened the oven too late, however, and the man was burned black.  This was, after all, the first man God had ever created.  Breathing life into the figure, He determined to try again.  God put the same material into the second man, shaped with the same care as before, and waited eagerly; but He grew impatient with waiting and opened the oven too soon revealing a man that was undone, a sickly and pasty white.

God was not satisfied with his second attempt and reproached Himself for another mistake.  So He made a third man, this time waiting patiently for just the right amount of time before removing the figure from the oven.  The third man was baked neither too much or too little.  He was a smooth golden brown colour, and God was satisfied.

This story could well have been of Malay, Burmese or Indonesian origin.  It could be told of China or Japan.  It could be the story of any brown or yellow-skinned people who had been made defensively aware of their colour by the coming of the white man.  The consciousness of colour that had been imposed by whites with stress on their superiority and dominance of the pale, and on the humble subjection of the dark, was the strongest weapon in Japan's arsenal in a tempestuous assault on the empires of the South Seas in the winter and spring of 1942, subsequent to entering the war against the British and Americans.

Indeed, an aspect of history that is interesting to contemplate.

Kind of explains too, why so many of us are half baked.
                                                                                                    

THE MANY USES OF THE WORD "FOOL"

I don't know what there is about the classic works of William Shakespeare that makes you remember parts of certain scenes almost verbatim.  Some of us work Shakespeare expressions into our conversations, even to this day.  One of my favorites from the Merchant of Venus is:  "Still more fool I shall appear, by the time I linger here..."

Truth be known, I think about that expression more often than I verbalize it.  "Still more fool..." comes to mind frequently when I am writing something and wondering how my words will be perceived by the reader..."Am I expressing myself effectively?"  "Am I taking too long to establish my point?"  "Is my thesis off base and ill-conceived?"  In short, "Will I make myself appear foolish by continuing with this subject?"

Some quotes from Shakespeare also leave me wondering about myself.  A good example is:  "A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."  Makes you think, doesn't it?

The word "fool"  haunted me the other day and prompted me to think about how many expressions or old sayings there were in the English language that included the pejorative term.  Just off the top of my head I came up with a list of 20 expressions, some quotations, that we commonly work into our everyday conversations and I am sure that I only scratched the surface.  Consider these:

A fool and his money are soon parted.
   It takes a fool to argue.
A fool's errand.
   Fool's paradise.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
   Nobody's fool.
Don't suffer fools gladly.
   There's no fool like an old fool.
Don't act the fool.
   Could have fooled me.
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
   You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you   
   cannot fool all of the people all the time.  --Abraham Lincoln
Fools look to tomorrow, wise men use tonight.
   Stop fooling around.
Once a fool always a fool.
   I'm a fool to care.
The tongue of the wise uses knowledge, but the mouth of fools pours out foolishess.

If fool-related expressions were not enough, I also found 34 words that incorporated the word "fool" as either a noun, a verb or an adjective.  I don't think that there is any other word that is that versitile.  Here are a few uses of the word, some more common today than others:  befool, befooled, befooling, befools, fooled, fooleries, foolery, foolfish, foolfishes, foolhardier, foolhardiest, foolhardily, foolhardiness, foolhardinesses, foolhardy, fooling, foolish, foolisher, foolishest, foolishly, foolishness, foolishnesses, foolproof, fools, foolscap, foolscaps, outfool, outfooled, outfooling, outfools, tomfool, tomfooleries, tomfoolery, tomfools.

Well, that's it.  I've fooled around with this subject long enough!  See if you can add to the lists.

O, incidentally, I only quoted half of the Shakespeare expression "Still more fool I shall appear, by the time I linger here..."  The other half is:  "...With one fools' head I came to woo, but I go away with two!"

LOSERS IN POLITICS AND LIFE HAVE MY SYMPATHY

After writing this post last night I was especially taken with my Your Stars horoscope in the newspaper this morning, Thursday, Oct. 13.  "Whatever you do, someone will criticize you for it.  Or, at the very least, they will question you about it.  If you are feeling sensitive and defensive, you may interpret their doubt as disapproval.  Then you may waste much precious time and energy, either worring unduly or preparing an unnecessarily strong defence.  What's really important today, is that you give your own intuition the trust that it deserves.  Your judgment is sound.  Your insight is astute.  Believe in yourself..."

Hmmmm.

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

I received a rather negative, anonymous response to my post on the defeat of Huron-Bruce Liberal candidate Carol Mitchell in last week's provincial election.  (See comment below, inappropriately attached to my offbeat "Thanks"giving sentiment.)

I have seen many elections come and go in my 74 years, a number of which I covered as a journalist.  I have not been beyond contributing to some election campaigns in my capacity as a publicist.  The elation of victory and the agony of defeat are never more prevalent than in campaign headquarters as emotions ebb and flow with each incoming pole result.  I am aware also, of how well (debatable) compensated politicians are and of the perceived perks of public office, but that was not the point in my piece on Carol Mitchell, and all other losers in elections past and present.

None of us, politicians included, anticipate losing.  Even though there is the realistic possibility of losing, we naturally undertake challenges in life with the expectation of emerging victorious.  Otherwise, why bother?  We celebrate victory and we mourn a loss of any kind, again that is only natural.  The sting of defeat is measured by the degree in which we have applied ourselves to a task or cause.  As with any walk of life, the harder we try the harder it is to fall.  In spite of skin that is thick out of necessity, politicians are capable of bleeding and are deserving of a little compassion when the life that they have known comes to a screeching halt at the polls.  No amount of transitional compensation ever completely makes up for the price that is paid emotionally, hense my comment:  "You couldn't pay me enough..."  That point alone should not be too difficult to appreciate.


I was merely writing from a human standpoint about the disappointment and anguish that comes with losing.  Carol Mitchell's upset last week simply gave me a peg on which to hang a long-held belief, albeit spontaneously expressed.   There is a lot of insensitivity and callousness in politics and I felt that I wanted to present a sensitive perspective on losing that is often overlooked in media reports and conversations in the coffee shop.  As I have written on many occasions, that is the nice thing about publishing your own web site -- you can freely express what is on your mind and in your heart and you can go on and on about it to your heart's content.

As a commentator of everyday life, I put myself in other peoples' shoes and give the benefit of doubt whenever possible.  I just happen to have a soft spot for losers.  I kind of know how it feels.

I write, for the most part, with gut-felt emotion and from experience.  If I feel something strong enough, I commit it to this site with as much emphasis as I am capable.  That's my style and that's what Wrights Lane is all about -- like it or not.

And my name is always attached to any comments I make in this and all other forums.


Perhaps some would say that I have "gone on" long enough!?

THANKS!

...I'm talkin' to You GOD!

POLITICS: IT IS POSSIBLE TO WIN BY LOSING

I have always been of the opinion that politics, more often than not, is a thankless, nasty business.  Politicians are constantly open to criticism, not only from opposition party members but from their own constituents as well.  They are damned if they do and damned if they don't.  They can never do enough to meet the demanding expectations of a growing number of interest groups seeking funding from the seemingly bottomless public purse.

This was never more evident to me than this past Thursday evening in my riding of Huron Bruce.

The mood grew sombre as supporters and volunteers watched the voting numbers begin to trickle in at what was to have been MPP Carol Mitchell's election night celebration party in Clinton.  Mitchell, who has been in politics for 18 years, eight in provincial legislature, was defeated in a true upset by a fresh-faced Progressive Conservative candidate Lisa Thompson.

IN HAPPIER TIMES

MPP for Huron Bruce as well as serving as Minister of Agriculture and Rural Affairs in the McGuinty government, Mitchell travelled extensively throughout her riding as MPP and throughout the province as a Cabinet Minister.   I never met the woman and I did not vote for her this time around, but from my vantage point she was a diligent and conscientious representative of the people.  As both an MPP and cabinet minister she would have sacrificed much of her personal life in carrying out a very demanding mandate.  There had to be a toll on her in terms of stress and strain.  With her disappointing fate sealed Thursday night, a pale and grim-faced Mitchell gave a brief statement to the media in her campaign office and then with a dismissive good riddance sweep of the hand, asked them to leave before she spoke with her supporters and volunteers, many of whom were visibly shaken by the upset.

I cannot begin to imagine how devastating it must be to have tangible evidence that there are at least ten thousand people out there in your constituency who do not like what you stand for.  Think of the damage that would do to one's confidence, pride and sense of self-worth.  Dreams and aspirations dashed in an election that drew less than 50 percent of eligible voters.

Mitchell was definitely the victim of the "we need a change" movement which seemed to prevail in Huron Bruce.  The public can be very fickle in that way.  She also ran afoul of a doctors lobby that was not satisfied with conditions in the emergency department at the hospital in Southampton, despite a $1 million infusion by the Ministry of Health and Long-Term Care to help keep the ED functioning.  It did not help, too, that in her capacity as agriculture minister she choose to reinforce a commitment to the farm community by attending the International Plowing Match in Prescott instead of an all-candidates meeting in Saugeen Shores where the doctors were lined up to bombard her with questions.


She did not realize it on Thursday night, but once the hurt and disappointment wears off, she will no doubt be a lot better off out of politics where she can start living her life for herself for the first time in eight years.  No demands.  No expectations.  No more potential for criticism from a public that does not understand, or care, that she did her best under difficult circumstances to be all things to all people.

I hope that there are sufficient supporters close to Carol Mitchell who will support and console her over the course of her difficult and painful transition to private life.  She will need that.

Ego aside, you could not pay me enough to expose myself to the life of a politician today.  My hat is off to those who do.

Good luck to Lisa Thompson!  She'll need it

WE ALL HAVE STRENGTH WE NEVER KNEW

I've said it many times before and I'll say it again:  We all have strength that we did not know existed deep within us.  Without even knowing it, we find ourselves adapting to unexpected and unfortunate situations that life throws in our path.  We forget that we have this facility until circumstances put us under pressure.

Just when we are starting to think that we have no answers, we suddenly find ourselves taking in stride, and dealing with, seemingly impossible problems and challenges.  This hidden ability is really a blessing in disguise and should give us all reason for hope.

Little did I realize when I was in my 20's that I would encounter career setbacks, financial hardship, health issues, death of loved ones and be cast in a situation where I was required to become a primary caregiver for a critically ill spouse.  At 20-years-of-age, I would have said "no way that I could ever handle situations like that."  But I did, to the point that I now consider myself a seasoned veteran, still dealing with the unexpected in life armed with that strength that I never knew I had.

I think that most of us do our best in our advanced years, intuitively adapting in our own way to unpleasant life issues and unexpected circumstances with a certain resolve:  We may be getting older, but in spite of aches and pains, we are growing stronger in many respects -- and getting better.

When I wear out, I will be worn out!  I never thought of it that way, but in the end it will feel kind of good knowing that I had the God-given strength to make it that far.