Ray Wiseman's Professional and Personal Site

Leaving immediately, usually at a run, we'd meet the van at the farm gate in the coulee bottom over 100 metres away. You will have noticed that I said 'van', not bus. The wooden, horse-drawn van could carry about 10 kids and a driver. A van didn't have a strobe light, flashing red lights, or a stop sign. It had no headlights or tail lights. It did have a flashlight and, at 6:20 on some cold mornings, moonlight or starlight lit the way. A tiny wood-burning stove at the front opposite the driver kept us warm. Well, it kept us from freezing. Most of us placed a piece of firewood on the icy floor beneath our feet. By keeping our feet off the floor, and by tapping our toes on the firewood, we'd make it to school without suffering from frost-bitten digits. The ride lasted an hour and a half.

But I have got ahead of myself. Today, residents of Wellington County have become concerned about coyotes. Seventy years ago the dog-like rascals thought they owned the Alberta countryside. We'd often hear them howling as they passed through our yard, upset because they found the chickens safely locked away for the night. We knew they'd hide nearby as we made the dash for the van. Although a little nervous, I actually felt sorry for them, because my big brother armed himself before beginning the trek. Pity the poor coyote who dared to attack an 11-year-old farm boy brandishing a four-foot fence post.

Ah, but back to the van. We travelled back roads that never saw a snow plow--if in fact someone had invented snow plows back than. Sometimes in blizzards, the wind would blow a van off the runners or it would roll over when trying to mount a major snowdrift. When I heard others kids describe their rollovers, I regretted never having that experience.

Keep in mind that getting to school was only half the battle. At four in the afternoon, we reversed the procedure, arriving home after dark.

So today, a lifetime later, I sit in my green chair and watch the yellow school buses with strobe and red lights flashing, stop signs extended, and crossing guards halting traffic. I furrow my brow, and think, "Boy, it must be dangerous to travel to school in 2010. Why else would they need all that protection?"

"I want you to go yourself Ray," the boss, Bob, said. "He's a really important customer and he sounds upset. Go quickly, he is waiting for you."

My attempt to begin a whole new career had failed, so I had temporarily returned to my old trade as a TV technician. As I drove to a destination on the northern edge of London, I muttered and grumbled to myself. "So, just because I went to college to train for the ministry, Bob thinks I have some special ability to solve problems with difficult customers."

As I drove, I tried to forget my annoyances and think about the customer. When Bob had explained that the client had a high military designation, I had thought, pompous and superior. Bob also explained the customer had invented a process used in the petroleum industry that had made him extremely wealthy and that he had founded a major Canadian corporation. I pictured a demanding, arrogant know-it-all. When Bob also told me the client had retired years previously, I pictured a senile, infirm man, maybe in a wheelchair. I thought, "Oh, brother, how do I get into these things."

I didn't feel any better when I arrived at a huge mansion. Following Bob's instructions, I rang the bell, opened the door and loudly announced myself. From within a voice asked me to enter. I followed instructions from the disembodied voice and arrived in a roomy den with a large TV set at the far side. I couldn't see anyone in the room. The voice said, "I just can't seem to get this thing connected."

Only then did I see a foot protruding from under the TV set. Moving quickly forward, I found the famous man seated on the floor with the end of a TV cable in one hand, a pocketknife in the other, and a frown on his face. "It came off when I moved the set," he said, and I've been an hour trying to reattach it."

I dropped down beside him and, with a few deft strokes of the appropriate tools, I reinstalled the connector, and hooked up the set. Next I caught his hand and helped him to his feet. Then for a few never-to-be-forgotten minutes I had the privilege of chatting with a gracious, intelligent old man; a man who had spent a lifetime doing the impossible, but that day a connector on a TV cable had confounded him. From then on, as long as I worked in the trade, he would allow no one else to touch his TV set.

I often think of the Major General, remembering how in his senior years, because of decreasing dexterity, a simple task had perplexed him. However, I remember more the grace with which he accepted my assistance. I thought of him again the other day when, due to my own advancing years and loss of dexterity, I couldn't complete a task and a younger person offered to help. I had trouble repressing my first reaction to push the helper aside and deny my frailties.

So now, when I fumble and drop things, and can't complete tasks I once did with ease, I remember an old man who sat on the floor behind a television set, graciously waiting for me to help him.

Here I go griping again. The last few columns must make me seem like a really miserable old curmudgeon. But now and again all of us need to let off steam; I'm just lucky enough to have a column so I can sound off publicly. Today I'll climb back on the soapbox and deal with an issue that some of you might remember from a previous column.

It came to a head this time when I received a newsletter from a favourite charity. A few years ago newsletters appeared as a communications tool to replace more costly magazines. Initially, they contained few if any pictures--just the plain facts with an easy-to-read font. In time they added pictures, and colour, lots of colour. They began to look much like the magazines they replaced. The change occurred as computers made it easy for anybody to create pages; and they did so without the experience and training of the typesetters and commercial artists who had previously done the job. The results, too often, show it.

Maybe I'd better illustrate by returning to the newsletter that set me off on this tirade. I slipped it out of its envelope and opened it. It looked gorgeous! A full colour picture filled half of the front page. A colour wash covered much of the rest of the page behind columns of typewritten material. I flipped through its few pages, again more pictures and colours. I held it at arms length thinking, "This looks great. Someone has an eye for colour."

Then I tried to read it. The colours masked the words. The designer had chosen to use a small sans-serif font. A sans-serif font does not have the tiny additions called 'serifs' at the end of strokes. The fonts used by most book and newspaper publishers employ serif fonts based on centuries of research that identifies the font styles that most people find easiest to read. Not only did I have to struggle with a coloured background and an uncomfortable font, but the designer, to get more words on the page, had chosen a small size. These errors happen in many publications not assembled by professionals. To be fair, I understand why. The designers most often have young eyes. Many would not have even reached the bifocal age and it just doesn't occur to them that the majority of readers do not have perfect eyes.

The outcome of my interaction with the newsletter: I threw it away without reading it. Large numbers of other intended readers would also run into difficulty and frustration. This results in a so-called communication tool that fails to communicate.

Not only has this become a problem with newsletters, it also makes many websites hard or impossible to read. When I find one with problems, I simply move to another site. My son who has been involved in the communications field all his working life, describes this problem as 'Form over Function'. The creators of newsletters and websites care more about what things look like without paying attention to their communication properties.

So, now that I have griped about it, what can you do? Let the publishers of websites and newsletters know you have difficulty reading them. Eventually, they might get your message even if you don't get theirs.

Many of us who write for a living or work in radio and television, too often forget that our own biases frequently colour our reporting. A good example of this type of bias appeared a couple of years ago during an interview with Stephen Harper. A reporter for a network edited a "No" answer in place of a "Yes" answer, making the PM look foolish. No doubt the reporter didn't like the Prime Minister and would argue that this distorted approach to editing presented a clearer picture of the PM's true position.

Sometimes things appearing in the media that distort the truth even though they have nothing to do with the personal biases of reporters or editors. All branches of the media need to present stories and pictures that grab attention. Therefore, they typically stress the extremes. If something frightfully evil, embarrassing to a famous person, shocking to our sensibilities, or ridiculous in the extreme happens it will likely get the central headline or front page picture.

At times good things happen that also get first mention in the media. But it seems most of us want to hear the bad news, or the media believes we prefer titillation to truth. We have seen good examples of this in the news coming out of Haiti. Hundreds, indeed thousands of people, both Haitians and outsiders, have risked their lives giving assistance to the injured and dying. Yet one newspaper featured a picture of a mob attacking a man caught looting. They had dragged the naked man to the street with a rope and then proceeded to beat him to death with a plank. This picture seemed to trump all other information coming out of Haiti. No picture appeared with it to remind us that hundreds of other Haitians were digging bare- handed to rescue trapped people.

The picture sent a message to gullible Canadians that Haitians are evil people, that they deserve both God's vengeance and the wrath of the mob. It plants in susceptible minds the thought that the Haitians deserve everything they get.

Another example comes to mind. The same newspaper showed a picture of Jacob Zuma, the president of South Africa, dancing at the wedding to his fifth wife. Dressed as a Zulu warrior and with his face contorted with excitement, it left the reader with questions: "Multiple marriages or polygamy? Dancing in public half naked? What kind of a nut have the South Africans put in charge of their country?"

Okay, I have trouble with polygamy, and I understand Mr. Zuma's polygamous marriage has upset many South Africans regardless of their racial and cultural background. The majority of us who live in Canada would have trouble with polygamy and agree that such a practice by a head of state reflects on his nation in a negative way. However the rest of the story shouldn't bother us. If a Canadian can march in a band wearing a kilt and playing bagpipes or dress in traditional First Nation's finery and dance to the beat of a drum, why shouldn't a South African Zulu honour his cultural traditions?

As consumers of media, we need to recognize that the industry has a built-in tendency to emphasize the extreme. We also need to make sure that our own personal biases don't further distort the truth.

Roman comic Terence said, "So many men, so many opinions."

In last week's column I commented, among other things, about the prorogation of parliament by Stephen Harper. I wrote, "Certainly, the Liberals have a good reason for getting upset; they never thought to do the same thing when they held power." In fact, I erred. Had I done even a little research, I would have learned that they have done it again and again. Only two things bring about the end of a session: prorogation or dissolution. Prorogation results in a temporary suspension of parliament, while dissolution triggers an election. I did a rough count on a government website. Parliament has faced dissolution approximately 40 times and prorogation roughly 120 times.

After filing last week's column I came across the blogsite of a friend, Andrew Lunau Smith, who made a clear statement on the issue. If you haven't surrendered to the computer age, you might not know that many people today use blogs to express opinions. Anyway, I asked permission to reproduce most of it in this column. Andrew, who with his wife and daughter served at school for the deaf in Puerto Rico for two years, now works with the School of Urban Biblical Studies in Toronto.

Andrew wrote: "Wow, people sure do have their shirts in knots concerning the prorogation of Canada's Parliament. Or do they? It's hard to know whether it's just the media that have got themselves into a froth, or if they are reporting public concerns accurately (unlikely), or if their reporting is what births and elevates so-called "concerns" and the cycle simply grows.

"I (Andrew) trained as a journalist and it's a big game. Really. There's not much integrity in reporting; it's all spun and sold.

"Back to Canadian politics. Mainstream media also suffers from the delusion that they are smarter than the people they write for. So recently newspapers had headlines alleging Canadians don't support the proroguing of Parliament, based on a poll the media themselves commissioned and paid for. EKOS and Ipsos and Angus and their ilk are plagues on thinking people. They ask leading questions and manufacture statistics to make bold headlines and attract readers. Do people actually believe the media's hype? I don't. Are people as dumb as the media thinks? I don't think so. But perhaps if the mainstream media reported real facts rather than serve as outlets for polling companies, we'd instead be reminded that proroguing Parliament is in fact a commonly done Parliamentary practice. (At this point Lunau Smith proves his point by directing readers to a government website that lists the dates of prorogation.) It happens. Instead, the media quotes the EKOS president (whom they paid) and he seems to think it is from the realm of "dusty constitutional law texts." It would seem the president of the polling company doesn't even know how Parliament works, or he too thinks people won't see through his self-serving comments.

"Now to rephrase a controversial bus poster... 'There's no news, so stop worrying and enjoy the Olympics.'"

Thank you Professor Andrew Lunau Smith for that fresh and enlightened look at the spin, or political marketing, or BS (Blatant Skulduggery) that too often passes for news. You can read his blog yourself, by going on line to: http://lunausmith.blogspot.com/

Various things tick me off. I usually recover quickly and never get around to writing about them. Anyway, it doesn't do me any good to whine about things I can't change. However, four things have annoyed me recently, so I'll sound off before cooling down and forgetting them.

Thing number one has to do with proroguing or suspending parliament. As you all know, Prime Minister Stephen Harper has again suspended parliament for a couple of months. That doesn't upset me, because under our parliamentary system he has the right to do so. The reaction of the opposition to the suspension does concern me, especially when they attempt to impute improper motives or imply Harper has done something illegal. Certainly, the Liberals have a good reason for getting upset; they never thought to do the same thing when they held power. I find it amusing that although Harper's detractors try to paint him as an ineffective leader, he manages to outmanoeuvre them and stay in power in circumstances where others have failed.

Thing number two relates to the ongoing discussion about Canadian troops turning over prisoners in circumstances where Afghan authorities subsequently tortured them. Hey folks, haven't you noticed, our troops are involved in a war? Truth becomes the first casualty of any war, so no one will ever get to the bottom of this issue. Instead of trying to make it a political matter, our leaders should accept it as an operational problem. They must realize the errors, if any, have occurred on the field. The insurgents have succeeded in killing our troops at a disturbing rate and regularly thwart their attempts at nation building. So let's not add an additional burden on our military personnel by accusing them of breaking the rules of the Geneva convention. The answer is simple: if it has happened, make sure it doesn't occur again and then shut up! We don't need ill-informed politicians telling the world we have involved ourselves in a dirty war. And therein lies a real political issue. If we can't trust the Afghan government and gain support from the people, why have we chosen to stay in the war?

Thing number three deals with protestors. I don't have any problem with people protesting something with which they disagree. But why must their dissension spill over into areas in no way related to the protest? Why should people not connected to the issue suffer? And why must those who believe in anarchy instead of our established system of democracy and law and order get so much free publicity? The protestors rarely expect to influence public decision-making; most want to see their names in print; some want publicity for their own agendas and can't find a more appropriate way to do it.

Thing number four has to do with . . . There you go, I have arrived at the end of the column and have already forgotten thing number four.

As an afterthought, do you want to know one of the most effective ways to protest anything in our culture? Write a letter to the editor. It costs nothing, while an ad of the same size might cost hundreds of dollars. And you likely won't get hit with a rotten tomato or come face-to-face with a cop.

As Keith's sat in the den looking through two open doors into the sun room, a smile flickered across his face. His Dad, John, home for the holiday weekend from the nursing home, sat on one end of the leather sofa, his walker parked nearby. Keith's daughter, 15-year- old Nancy, sprawled on the other end. Both faced the picture window that framed an ancient barn and farmland that stretched into the shallow valley--fields that Keith had quit farming twenty years ago to take a job with a regular salary. "Look at the two of them," he thought. "They are like bookends to the generation gap. Both without cares in the world, leaving everything to me, the middle generation. I guess I get a certain pleasure being the breadwinner."

Grandpa John stared uneasily at the barn. "I shouldn't just sit here," he said aloud and shifted forward in his seat. "I should get out and help Keith with the cows."

Almost immediately, he leaned back and tapped his fingers against his right temple. "What is the matter with my old brain? Haven't had cattle on the farm for 40 years--not since Keith was a little shaver." He shook his head and fixed his eyes on the old barn. "Look at it," he thought, "Good thing we have no cows. If one rubbed her butt against it, it'd fall down."

Grandpa John sent his brain off in another direction. He remembered bringing Martha to the farm as his bride. He remembered the struggles of those early years, of the long days of hard labour getting the farm paying. He stared past the barn into the distant fields. He remembered how Martha would bring him afternoon coffee--they'd sit in the shade of the old John Deere for a few minutes before he returned to plowing and she to the kitchen. He shook his head as he recalled how they'd worked side-by-side at harvest time--she could outwork any hired hand they'd ever had.

Suddenly uneasy, John glanced back and forth across the room, his thoughts going into panic mode. Aloud he said, "Where is Martha?" Then to himself, "Didn't she come with us from the nursing home?"

Again, he settled back, tapping his temple. "There I go again. Martha has been gone for seven years. Dear Lord, it's no fun getting old. I miss her so."

Nancy, accustomed to hearing Grandpa say funny things, had ignored his outbursts. Besides, she had thoughts of her own. "I've got to get out of here! Mom and Dad act like jailers. All day long I hear 'Nancy do this, Nancy do that,' and 'Get out of bed or you'll miss the school bus. And stay away from Jeff, he's no good.'"

Nancy sucked in her breath wondering if Mom or Dad had any idea what she and Jeff had been up to. Her thoughts raced, "What if I got . . . . They'd kill me. No, before they could do that, I'd run away with Jeff. If he would't go with me, I'd kill myself. That's what I'll do. I'll kill myself. It's no fun being a teen."

Keith turned his gaze from the pair in the sun room, pleased that he had his family and life under control.

In last week's column you saw me seated in my big green chair dreaming about past Christmases. This week you'll find me in the same place. Honest, I haven't been there all week. Life has caught me in a whirlwind of busyness. Recently someone asked me if I planned to retire. I replied, "No. I tried that once. It doesn't work."

Well back to my comfortable old chair. I sat back and thought about the nearly 19 years of column writing and the people who had appeared in them. You will remember the characters only if you had read me prior to appearing in The Wellington Advertiser. Most people rate Aunt Harri as the most memorable of them. She is my favourite. I can shut my eyes and see her now as Anna and I did in June 1993. She had arrived at our door, asking to borrow a hammer, but refused any help. Later we encountered her walking along the county road, tapping her cane briskly, her other hand swinging freely, and her chin thrust forward. Only her slightly-stooped shoulders betrayed her age. When we stopped and chatted briefly; she said she learned to walk as a former WAAC.

Without another word, she nodded and moved briskly on her way. Her voice drifted back on the wind; I could hear a mezzo soprano singing a marching song to the beat of a cane: "I had a good home and I left . . . left . . . left."

Anna looked at me in wonder and said, "From what she said, that woman was in the First World War! She must be in her nineties!" Watching the retreating, elderly, but definitely energetic figure, I said, "Yes, either that or the Anglo-Boer War."

How could I forget Aunt Harri? She marched into my columns regularly and even managed to get into the pages of a book named for her, Aunt Harri Walks the Line.

Maybe you remember another character who wormed his way into my weekly submissions beginning in January 1995. Bert often arrived at my door, elbowed me aside and beat me to my chair. Every time this guy showed up, something memorable happened. I described him as my great half uncle, or second-cousin twice removed, or something or other. In our mixed-up family, due to our patriarch's two marriages separated by 40 years, no one knows for sure who is what. Bert then carried over 200 pounds on his big-boned, 63-year-old frame. Only his mother ever used his real name: Egbert. I loved Bert like my own brother.

In July of 1997, The Reverend Frank Barklay burst into print with all the energy of a young man. And why not, at 62 he weighed the same and felt no different than he did 30 years ago. Early in the story Frank's wife died. One reader became so involved with the character, he thought I had lost Anna.

However, I remember best a host of interesting characters who never appear in the column, my readers: those who phone or e-mail; those who stop me in the street, or while shopping, or in church. You are my true heros, because you keep reading me, year after year. In the spirit of Christmas, I wish everyone a manger full of love in the new year.

I sat in my big green chair with eyes closed. Pictures of past Christmas celebrations floated by on the screen of my memory.

Whenever I think back, visions of life on the prairie farm come first. The weather often gave us a rough time in December and January. One December the temperature dropped to -40 degrees and stayed there for weeks. We tolerated trips to the barn to look after the few animals we kept. But we positively hated the regular trips to the well, about 100 hundred yards from the house and down in the coulee bottom. Lashed by the wind on the exposed hillside, we'd spill water from the buckets and stumble into the house with our pant legs frozen solid. In that cold December the water in the shallow well froze so the bucket on the rope just bounced uselessly on the ice. My brother, being older, got an axe, climbed into the well and cut a hole big enough to fill the bucket. He had to repeat that performance every day until the cold snap ended in the new year.

The holiday break usually arrived on the Alberta farm adorned with a number of symbols: cold crisp days; often with driving winds and a crust on the snow that would support a horse; if we had money for batteries, the radio would play carols. We'd have days off school, giving us rest from the quarter mile hike to meet the horse-drawn school van and the one- or two- hour trip to town.

When we moved from the farm to London, Ontario, things got much better. We quickly adapted to a house with indoor plumbing and electricity. "We'll be healthier and have a great Christmas this year," Mother said. She had bought the house and furniture for a few dollars down and $12.00 per month. Somewhere she had scraped up enough money to buy an old radio that plugged into the electricity. Now we could listen to carols without Mother worrying about the cost of batteries. We looked forward to a great Christmas. Gifts, more than we'd ever seen before piled up under the scrawny tree, thanks to Aunt Elsie and Uncle Sam. When the magic day arrived, my brother and I, dispirited and pale, dressed in pyjamas, and wrapped in blankets, sat on the floor before the tree, our necks and jaws swollen. "Mom," I whined, "why did we get the mumps for Christmas?"

The next Christmas got better. My sister got the mumps.

When I think of Christmas spent as an adult, those in South Africa always clamour for attention. We found ourselves in a country where the reversed seasons put December 25 in mid-summer; they celebrated with a swim and braifleis (barbecue). The people decorated for the season with multicolored streamers, not just red and green. If you wanted a Christmas tree, you bought one rooted in a bucket. We felt culture shock and frustration; our tried and true traditions did not fit; we needed new customs to survive in a strange land. So for the next few Christmases, we joined 2,000 African people at a conference and stayed into the new year immersing ourselves in African culture.

Have a great Christmas. The one you celebrate today will become a prized memory in the future.

At age eight, I awaken and wiggle my head free from quilts and blankets. As the covers settle, I feel a blast of frosty air across my face. I grab my clothes from the foot of the bed, hauling them beneath the covers. This causes more eddies of air to whirl over me, sending a chill right down to my feet. I try to lie still, but the chill air has brought on spasms of shivering. I'll wait until the trembling stops and my clothes warm up before getting dressed.

I peek from my nest, exposing only my eyes to the room. An oil lamp stands on the washstand. Its yellow light pushes back the early-morning darkness. My brother must have got up and lit it. I dangle my arm over the side of the bed, locate the chamber pot and pull it out. I'll need it when I get up. I mutter to myself, "Town kids have toilets inside. And warm rooms. And they don't get up early. Why do I live on a farm in the middle of nowhere where nothing ever happens?"

Then I look at the window and suck in my breath. My heart skips a beat and then speeds up. The glow of the oil lamp has washed over the window revealing the overnight work of Jack Frost. Thick icy strokes of his brush have painted a marvellous scene on the window. I can see a pond, trees, and mountains. Is that a house beside the pond? Do I see a horse leaping over the mountain like one of Santa's reindeer? The longer I look the more I see. "Ray, get down here," Mother's voice breaks that marvellous moment.

I move quickly. Clothes on. Use the chamber pot. Can't wash; water frozen in basin. Down stairs. Smell breakfast cooking.

I eat my oatmeal and dress for outdoors. My brother stands at the front window watching for the horse-drawn school van. He'll see only the wink of a flashlight as it comes down the coulee hill a half mile away. Then we'll walk the quarter mile to the farm gate. "Lot's of coyote action last night," Mother says. "They came right into the yard. Carry the lantern."

My brother sees the van's signal and out we go. He hands me the lantern, picks up a broken fence post, and takes a practice swing. I hear the howl of a coyote and walk in the near blackness close to big brother. We cross coyote tracks three times before reaching the waiting van.

Twelve hours later we return home in the dark. Good day: the van didn't roll over in a snow bank; neither did the horses run away. Mother has a great meal ready and soon I crawl into bed. It seems only minutes later when Mom shakes me awake, asking me to dress quickly because we need to go outside. Within minutes I stand staring at the northern sky. Lights in various colours flicker and glow from the horizon to a point far above my head. In the silence of the prairie night, I hear a faint musical sound. I'm sure I can hear the northern lights singing to me.

Like I said, how come I live on a remote prairie farm where nothing happens?

I often sit in my big green chair and watch children leaving the J.D. Hogarth public school. The final bell of the school day coincides with my mid-afternoon tea break. Of course I observe more than just kids. I see heavy backpacks weighting down each child, most of them usually hanging much too low on their backs. Big yellow buses, with lights flashing, crowd into the appropriate spaces to load kids who live too far from school to walk the distance. I also see cars and vans parking on the side street or the church parking lot as they take on little passengers. I assume the young ones climbing into the cars live close enough to the school to walk, but their parents prefer them to ride.

Why can't they walk? The moms and dads might have a dozen reasons, but I suspect most would cite the danger from human predators. Others might argue that the heavy load of books the students carry home makes transportation a necessity. I believe another major reason also contributes. The children need to hurry home so they can redeem the time to play. Organized sports demand that the kids arrive on time at the hockey rink or miss out on ice time. If the ice rink doesn't call the soccer field or other sports activity does.

I guess as an old-timer, I have the advantage of remembering different times. From about the middle of the 20th century stretching back into history children most often walked to school. They didn't carry backpacks because they didn't bring books home every night-maybe one or two if they had homework. And yes, the boys often did carry the girls' books. Although I'm sure we had a hight percentage of evil people in the world, we didn't hear much about them molesting or murdering children. The students usually headed home to help with the chores, especially if they lived on a farm. Even the town and city kids had lawns to mow, gardens to weed, leaves to rake, and snow to shovel. Organized sports, if they existed, occurred most often on Saturdays.

Also looking back to and beyond the middle of the last century, the concept of teenage didn't exist. As boys grew into their teen years, the after-school activities grew heavier, and by the time they reached 16, many had gone to work, often as apprentices in whatever trade would become their life-long careers. Indeed, parents expected them to begin earning their own living and contributing to the family. As boys went to work, girls began preparing for their futures as housewives. Simply put, teenage as a time to play did not exist until society decided amusement and play outranked personal growth and development.

So during the last 50 to 70 years, we have created a stage in life dedicated mostly to carefree living, therefore reducing the time to learn life skills and develop a sense of personal responsibility. Why don't we understand it when children in adult bodies often run amok when parents send them away from home to college or university? Why does it surprise us that crime and drug use has accelerated among today's youth?

I believe an answer to this problem exists, but we will have to solve it one child at a time within individual families.

I recently read a column entitled "Dad and the Thingamadodger," in Servant magazine, written by author, public speaker, and humorist Phil Callaway. Essentially, it described his late dad as one who would never earn entrance into the Fatherhood Hall of Fame. His dad just didn't do all the things today's experts believe fathers should do.

Well, neither did my father. I've frequently written about other members of my family, but rarely about Dad, except to discuss his mental illness and the traumatic experiences resulting from it. But he wasn't always ill. I recall positive incidents from my first five or six years and others that occurred during visits he made home in the following years.

I'll steal Phil Calloway's approach and tell you first about the things that would block him, by modern standards, from qualifying for Father of the Year. He didn't buy me new skates. The old ones flopped over at the ankles. He didn't buy me a pony, as he did for his first family. He didn't even get me a used bicycle. He had good reason for his failures in those areas; he just did not have the money.

I don't recall Dad ever hugging me or telling me he loved me. Old time fathers didn't do things like that. Although he would not have heard of the concept of spending quality time with his kids, he did exactly that. Those events stand out like lighthouses on an otherwise bleak shoreline.

Soon after returning from England, I'd be three or four years old, Dad drove a horse-drawn school van to make a few dollars as he tried to bring the farm back into production. I clearly remember one time when he took me along. Sitting next to him, and looking back at the big kids going to school, I felt like a prince. At about that time, Dad crafted me a bed, using old crib ends and various materials found in the shed or scrounged from neighbours. I proudly slept on it for years, until my increasing weight broke through the chicken-wire bedspring.

A little later in life, I followed Dad on what amounted to a hunting trip. As I walked behind him through a field, he suddenly stepped sideways, bent down, and picked up a live rabbit by the ears. For a man then pushing 70, he sure could move. On another occasion he showed me how to disable a porcupine with a stick and transport it safely home for dinner (Mother refused to cook it). Although a crack shot in the army, I never saw Dad carry a rifle. We had other great times together: tobogganing, visiting auction sales, attending political gatherings.

Dad had raced bicycles as a young man, and during his short visits home during my early teens, he taught me how to change the angle of my feet as they rotated with the pedals to essentially change gears even though riding a fixed-gear bike. He also taught me to align a bent wheel by changing the tension of the spokes. By then I'd saved up $15 to buy an old bike with only one speed and bent wheels.

Most of us will have great memories of our fathers if we concentrate on the positive moments and sweep away the negative times.

I'm sure I spend at least half of my life waiting.

Last week, Anna and I sat in the examining room for 45 minutes waiting for a doctor. We had previously spent ten minutes in the waiting room, having arrived right on time for Anna's appointment. The doctor entered, made the necessary examination, wrote out two requisitions and a prescription, and sent us our way. Total time: a few minutes over an hour.

The following day I escorted Anna to another doctor's office, a specialist. We arrived ten minutes early and finally, one hour later, met the doctor face to face. A half hour after that, tests all completed and prescriptions written, we left his office, and looked for a restaurant to relieve the hunger knots in our stomachs.

Later that day a friend phoned to tell me he would come by in 15 minutes to pick up an item he had left with me. I stood around waiting for him for a quarter hour. Tired by his nonappearance, I asked Anna watch and returned to my computer to begin writing the column for this week. The belated friend appeared about one hour later than the promised time. Right about then it struck me: an hour in the doctor's office, an hour in the specialist's office, then another hour waiting for my friend. Of course. I should have expected it. My friend is also a doctor.

I shouldn't just blame doctors. I wait for everything and everybody. I wait to go to sleep at night. I wait to get out of bed in the morning so I won't disturb Anna. I wait for e-mails from family members. I wait for the letter carrier to arrive. I check the mail, discovering that I'll wait even longer for those overdue cheques. I wait for the daily paper so I can do the Jumble and crossword puzzle.

Looking at the calender, it tells me that Christmas will arrive in five weeks. So now I'll have to wait for Christmas. That's not such a big issue. I remember as a boy waiting and watching the months drag by before Christmas. Back then with Christmas fever rising, it seemed every week in actual time took about a month of waiting time.

People waited hundreds of years for the first Christmas. They read the words of the prophet who hundreds of years before Jesus birth said, "for unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given . . . and he shall be called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." They read another prophet who said "But thou Bethlehem . . . out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be ruler of Israel . . ." And they waited, and waited, and finally he came.

Devout Christians today not only look forward to celebrating the birth of Christ in five weeks time, but they also wait for him to return again. Two millennia ago another writer said, "this same Jesus which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner. . ."

Where do we as a human race get our patience? Some folks would call it a result of thousands of years of evolution. I prefer to believe God designed us to wait. He wrote it into our DNA.

You all read or saw media reports about Kimberly Munley who shot the Fort Hood gunman. Mighty Mouse, as fellow officers call this 100-pound cop, traded gun shots with the accused killer. She brought him down even though wounded three times herself.

I admire women who step into jobs historically held by men and come up big winners. No doubt it all started with my mother. She joined the British WAACs and went to France during the First World War. There she cooked for soldiers going up the line until frequent aerial attacks sent her home shell shocked. As a young person, a visit to a port area brought her face-to-face with a potential rapist who grabbed her shirt front. She doubled her fists and began swinging. Within moments he fled.

Mother moved to Canada and eventually married Dad, 20 years her senior. Dad became mentally ill and at times violent. I watched her disarm him when he raised a pair of scissors as though preparing to strike my brother. On another occasion I saw her wrestle Dad away from the stair top when he attempted to push her down. Like officer Munley, Mom stood just over five feet tall. In order to raise and protect her children, she fended off the government and poverty, winning every battle.

I admire my wife Anna for her ability to step into a man's shoes when the situation demands it. When I married her she knew little about cooking, but did well at work in a male- dominated manufacturer's office. When she quit that job to help in my small business, she worked with confidence soldering components into electronic equipment. When something broke in the house, she simply fixed it, depending on skills learned from her father. Anna drives with excellent skill, and has allowed me to take credit for all our vehicle accidents. When you marry a daddy's girl, you have a definite advantage.

Then along came Linda. We didn't have a daughter, so we hand-picked one. Linda has worked as an equestrian for most of her life. That doesn't mean that she just teaches children to ride; she teaches proper manners to horses. Linda breaks young horses for riding: bucking, kicking, rearing creatures that want nothing to do with humans. She has been thrown, body slammed, and bitten by horses. Once, a race horse lost its footing and fell on her, breaking her leg. In another, a horse running at full gallop, tripped, and fell. She landed on her head and the horse rolled over her. She has suffered broken bones, other assorted injuries, and multiple concussion syndrome.

Realizing that the skills required to train horses also equipped her to work with teenagers, she took a part-time position as a youth pastor. Then she enrolled in a seminary program while continuing with her equestrian and pastoral duties. Recently Linda attended a kick-boxing tournament with a youth from her Church. She said, "That was an experience. This is not a place that I might normally enter, and the music, crowds, cheers, tattoos, and surging testosterone are nothing like my usual world."

She did that as an outreach to young people. The world is full of women who accomplish things that I as a mere man would never do.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "There is properly no history, only biography."

That means the personal stories of people matter more than events or circumstances. My brother had a two-year period in his life that profoundly affected the lives of those around him. I always looked on my big brother as bigger, stronger, more capable, and definitely more bossy. Following my father's illness and hospitalization, the government of Alberta seized the farm, prompting Mother to leave it. As my brother, Harry, grew to maturity, Mother chose to return to the farm so he could manage it. We arrived back on the farm in the summer of 1946. Having made a few hundred dollars on the sale of a house, Mother equipped the farm with two cows, chickens, turkeys, and pigs. She also bought saddle horses for Harry and me and a team and democrat for family transportation (Americans call a democrat a buckboard).

The next two years, up until the fall of 1948, belong to Harry. The fences immediately commanded his attention. With me trailing along carrying the tools, he walked the line fences, replacing missing staples, putting tension back into sagging barb wire, and replacing broken fence posts. When he had finished the first round, he decided he would need to replace a number posts, so with axe in hand and Daisy, his riding horse, for company, he headed for the wood lots. Daisy pulled home a great number of posts, which Harry then piled to dry for use the following year.

The farm needed a well closer to the house, so Harry arranged for a water 'witch' to find an appropriate place. He then began to dig, building the cribbing and pounding it deeper as the hole slowly progressed toward China. After days of heavy labour on his part and reluctant assistance from me, he sank the hole down to a depth of ten feet. Harry rarely admitted defeat, but recognizing the impossibility of the task, he threw down his shovel and gave up. He stood staring into the empty hole for some time before making an announcement. "It's perfect for an ice well. We need an ice well."

Harry had it right. Most Alberta farms that didn't have electricity used ice wells to keep food cold throughout the blistering hot summers. Every ice well needed an ice house, a six-foot square shed with a trap door to open over the well. Harry changed from well digger to carpenter and began building the structure. Again he called on me to help lift the walls into place and carry the lumber. When winter arrived, we cut ice blocks from the coulee pond, and with the help of the team and a sledge we filled the well with ice. Harry built a pulley system to lower milk and meat through the trap door down to the sawdust layer that covered the ice.

Throughout those two years we milked cows, fed chickens, slopped pigs, and went to school in a horse-drawn van. Sometime during the summer of 1948, as Harry moved into a fence- rebuilding phase, he collapsed due to a congenital heart problem, prompting us to abandon the farm.

One other thing about Harry: he began that two-year venture in the summer of 1946 at the age of 13.

"They don't teach cursive handwriting in schools anymore." I heard that comment on television recently; it so amazed me that I didn't even listen closely enough to find out what schools the speaker had in mind. I just assumed that he alluded to American schools. We don't do dumb things like that in Canada.

Or do we? I recall some of the issues that came up during the 1960s and 1970s as my sons made their way through primary and high school. Back then we worried when the schools quit teaching phonics. I had learned to read phonically; at least in my memory, phonics was a key part of learning to read. Yet as time progressed, phonics became a naughty word in some circles, and something called 'whole language' arrived. Fortunately, during the boy's school years, we moved often enough from one school district to another or one country to another so that someone taught them to read phonetically. Some hasty research tells me phonics has returned, although disguised as part of an overall reading program.

At about the same time educational theorists decided that school would work better if children learned in open spaces. They called it 'open concept'. Some school boards took the bait and built school buildings without walls. Guess what? It didn't work because noise from classes bothered adjacent classes. The tax payers got stuck with the task of installing walls in the experimental buildings.

Quite recently I have noticed another failure in our school system. I, along with a team of others, operate a service that critiques or mentors new authors. We help them to improve their basic writing techniques, to develop story-telling ability, and to look for publishers. I have made the awful discovery that many of the youngest among potential writers have no knowledge of basic grammar. They don't know the difference between a verb and noun. They wouldn't have a hope if asked to participate on the television show, Are you smarter than asixth grader?

And then I heard about schools that no longer teach cursive handwriting, that high-school students today cannot communicate effectively in that medium. I didn't believe it applied to Ontario, so I decided to consult with a panel of experts: my grandchildren. I checked with five of them, from a grade-niner through college and university age and one well established in a high-tech career. I received almost identical answers from all of them: "Yes, I learned cursive handwriting in grade two or three, but I have lost the skill today."

They can all type and text at great speed, but not one of them can use cursive handwriting. If they don't have a keyboard handy, they print out the words with a pen or pencil. If they need to take handwritten notes in class, they print them, sometime in a hybrid fashion joining some of the letters. When I asked if they could read handwritten letters from their great- grandparents they answered, "Not likely."

Don't blame the teachers. Philosophers and scholars develop theories that eventually trickle down. No one knows if they work until they have screwed up the lives of a generation of students.

I'm afraid to ask my grandkids if they know a verb from a noun.

"There are no such things as incurables; there are only things for which man has not found a cure." In August of 2007 I began a column with that quote from Bernard Baruch. It seems that Baruch's statement and my words contained seeds of prophecy.

"Three naked men, jumped from the airplane," my son said just as if it happened every day.

It should not have surprised me. All sorts of interesting things happen when flying the 'jump' plane near Victoria. I earlier told you how his wife parachuted from 10,000 feet to raise money for charity. I asked, "Are you telling me three guys jumped without clothes? Were they crazy?"

"Yes, and maybe. They went to the aircraft door, dropped their shorts, and jumped." I asked two more questions. "Why did they do it? If they had landed in a crowd of people, what would they have done?"

"I guess they just wanted to do something different. Had they landed in the wrong place, they would have wrapped themselves in their parachutes."

Well, all of us like to embark on exciting little adventures occasionally. However few of us would dare to appear naked in a place where we might encounter members of the public. Although, when I think back, I recall skinny dipping in the Thames river with another lad. Fortunately, no one caught us, however, the other fellow picked up a skin infection from the polluted water. Mind you, once as an adult, things almost went terribly wrong. I'll tell you the story.

Looking like a dried prune, but dripping wet, I climbed shivering from the tub and onto the bath mat. Puzzled by a bell ringing steadily like a fire alarm, I peaked out into the living room. From the door, opened just a crack, I could see the TV screen filled with fire trucks, running fire fighters, and leaping flames--the audio matched the video with sirens wailing, men shouting, and an overriding, clanging alarm. "Oh," I said, stepping back inside to begin the towelling process.

Only half dry, the continuing alarm prompted me to look out again. The TV video and sound remained much the same, but before I could retreat, Anna ran into the apartment from the hallway. As the door opened the din of our building fire alarm followed her in. She cried out, "Fire in the basement!" and disappeared again, closing the door behind her.

I raced from the bathroom and stopped dead in the middle of the living room--the TV scene had changed, but the alarm continued to clang--our building alarm. In the five seconds I stood there, bare and shivering, my brain ran faster than a speeding fire truck--I had seen a series on television that demonstrated the rapidity of a spreading fire. I realized I might have only 90 seconds to live! I rushed toward the door, but before reaching it, a vision rushed through my mind--I could see newspaper headlines, "Columnist flees naked from burning building."

I began pulling on clothes, but before anything tragic happened, Anna returned to report a false alarm.

I doubt that many of my readers would want to imitate the parachutists and leap naked from an airplane. However, when you hear a fire alarm while in the shower or tub, be smart enough to grab a towel on the way out of the bathroom. That way you won't have to make a major life-changing decision: "Shall I embarrass myself publicly, or shall I allow the fire to burn me into a charred ember?"

I recently discussed how I appreciated older television dramas to modern offerings. To me the more recent shows have lost the art of storytelling; they ignore proven production techniques; and they neglect the real audience while playing to imagined viewers. I will grant one thing: they excel at acting.

I also have as much, or even more, trouble with modern-day humour. I enjoy a good joke so I always read the comics in the daily newspaper. In reality I read about two-thirds of them; the other third I just don't get. The few times Anna and I tried to watch stand-up comedians on TV, we ended up giving each other a blank stare and switching channels. Okay, so we were born 50 years too soon. Or should I say, 50 years too late?

I have always liked to tell jokes and more than once as a younger person got in trouble because I aimed them at people who didn't appreciate my sense of humour. I had a hard time understanding others' reactions because I didn't mind it when people told similar jokes on me. As I began to smarten up, I would think of something funny, then try to choke it back rather than offend. One day it dawned on me. Unless I knew a person really well and fully expected him or her to retaliate in kind, I should change the direction of the joke, aiming it at myself. When I learned that trick, I offended fewer of my friends. I'll admit, at times I still blunder and find myself apologizing.

I learned more about joke telling from African friends in South Africa. Although living under strick laws to separate the races, many would laugh at themselves or their circumstances. One lady challenged me to take piano lessons with her. "We could play apartheid piano," she said, dissolving into laughter. "You could play the white keys and I could play the black keys."

Listening to those Old Radio Shows late in the evening from Toronto and Hamilton radio stations has reminded me how humour has changed in the last 50 or 60 years. The comedy programs of yesteryear frequently put down individuals, used stereotypes, and played up the ignorance of others. Two of the worst come to mind. Older readers might remember The Life of Riley and The Aldrich Family. Chester Riley, appeared as a stereotypical blue-collar worker, drowning in ignorance, and completely devoid of parental skills. Each episode portrays a bungling father who comes close to destroying the family or community. Just as Riley demonstrated the failure of fathers, the Aldrich's pictured a dysfunctional family. Every member of the family lacked communication skills and made a mockery of family life.

However, one old-time comedian got it right. Jack Benny had a style of his own. In an age when comedians depended on getting laughs based on stereotypical views of others, Benny took a different route. The radio character appeared as a direct opposite to the real Benny: cheap, intolerant, arrogant and self-congratulatory. Benny allowed his supporting characters to get laughs at the expense of his failings. His masterful handling of those techniques made the show a success.

We should all copy Benny and my African friends and learn to laugh at ourselves.

Do you ever feel like drowning or disowning your kids or grandkids?

Don't do it. Drowning would land you in jail and disowning might separate you from much pleasure in the years to come. Believe me, when I speak of pleasure coming from offspring, I speak from experience. We raised four boys, now all doing well. Our youngest, Ken, will soon arrive for a visit from British Columbia.

Ken, by his own admission gave us a rough time as he grew up, as the following will illustrate. One day when we lived in South Africa, Ken saw a juicy pomegranate hanging from a branch just above the neighbour's greenhouse. He climbed on the wall separating our properties and looked over the greenhouse roof where he saw panes of glass framed by metal strips. He stepped onto a strip and began picking his way slowly toward the middle and the pomegranate. When the fruit hung just above his head he stretched to full height, raised up on tip toes, and grabbed the pomegranate.

As his fingers closed on it he lost his balance and landed one foot on the middle of a glass pane. Cracks exploded in all directions. Frightened that he might fall through, he ran for the edge, each step smashing a square of glass. He leaped from the roof and went into hiding. The neighbour never knew what happened, and Ken told us years later after returning safely to Canada.

Back in Canada, he gave us many bad moments, then dropped out of high school and joined the army. When he left the army, he learned to fly and returned to school to become an aircraft maintenance engineer.

He did well in his chosen field and developed his father's sense of humour. One day while at the controls of a Cessna with Anna and me in the back seat, and closing in for a landing, he turned to face me. Seemingly oblivious of the runway rushing up toward us, he said, "Would you get that book out of the luggage area. I need it. It's called, Five Easy Steps in Landing an Airplane."

I eventually learned to trust him. A few years back Anna and I flew by Garuda airline across Java, Indonesia. As we travelled, I read an article that detailed the 40-year career of a recently-retired Garuda pilot. It described a competent man, one most of us would trust with our lives. I tucked the magazine into the seat pocket as the plane descended toward Jakarta, thankful I had chosen to fly Garuda. Then, to my surprise, we entered a thunderstorm. The craft bucked and bumped; great flashes of lightning lit the sky over the left wing; my stomach planned rebellion and my bladder threatened embarrassment; I gripped the arm rests in real fear, and then blurted out the most amazing words: "I wish Ken were flying this thing!"

Wow, from troublesome, joking son to a competent professional whom I'd trust with my life. How our attitudes change toward our offspring as the years pass. What mysterious force turns the table between children and parents as the years tick by? Is it because they grow and develop? Or could it be that we mature?

Maybe love simply blurs the past and emphasizes the present.

"Harry has disappeared," Mother said.

The hesitation in her voice and tiny quiver in her lower lip telegraphed her fear to me. I had never seen or heard of Mother showing fear. Mother, the British WAAC, had laughed and cracked jokes in the underground shelter as enemy bombs burst outside. Mother had used her fists to drive off a dockyard worker who had dared to assault her. Mother, care-giver to a mentally ill husband, had disarmed him when he became violent. Only now did I see her showing fear; her oldest son had disappeared.

Friends had taken us on the hour-long drive from our farm near Galahad, Alberta, to Hardisty lake so we could spend two weeks in a cabin. They would return for us at the end of our short vacation. With my dad, Harry Wiseman, in the hospital and income strictly limited, Mother had pinched pennies to afford this time away with her two teenage boys and their little sister. What do two teens do at a lonely lake for two weeks? As the younger of the teenagers, I essentially followed my brother, Harry Junior, around. We found no one else our age, male or female. Harry hadn't brought his rifle, so he couldn't even go hunting gophers or crows. We watched birds, walked in the woods, picked Saskatoon berries, splashed in the lake, and wished we had stayed home.

Near the end of the week, Harry disappeared. Before nightfall, mother sent for the police. She explained that Harry had never done anything foolish; she could always depend on him, so she could not imagine what had happened. "No officer," she said, "my Harry would never run away."

Remembering our boredom, I wondered if he had done exactly that. I got to ride around in the police car as we checked the nearby roads. No sign of Harry. "I can't believe he has gone anywhere," Mother told the policeman. "But if he did, he would go home."

The next day the police car headed for Galahad. When they didn't find Harry at the farm they visited the neighbours, saying that Harry Wiseman had vanished. They asked the family who lived on the neighbouring farm, the Reg Stover's, to take him under their wings if he showed up and let the police know. Reg later told us how a chill went up his spine. He had known about my dad's sometimes violent moments and assumed that Harry Wiseman senior had 'escaped' from the mental hospital at Ponoka.

In fact, Harry Junior had walked the forty miles back to the farm. The police eventually found him and brought him back. Mother's fear turned to relief, then to anger. Her anger soon dwindled. She must have understood that she had not been sensitive to his needs. During the next few years when she made major decisions, she put her children's needs or wants above her own.

That incident, when I lost my big brother and found him again, occurred over 60 years ago. Thirty-one years back I lost him again when a heart defect took him much too soon. As I recounted this incident, I pondered on the importance of family and the value in having brothers and sisters. My eyes became moist. I miss my big brother.

I spent a few minutes going through websites sponsored by people who oppose President Obama's attempts to introduce a more equitable health-care system into the United States. The most extreme arguments come from people who believe that under socialized medicine, bureaucrats would decide which older people would live or die. When Americans argue with each other, they argue from the extreme ends of the political system, calling opponents either Marxists or fascists. They seem unable to meet in the middle.

Some of the negative arguments make sense. As Canadians we realize that socialized medicine has its drawbacks. On the other hand, many of us know that under an American pay-as-you-go system, we would likely have died two or three illnesses back.

Back in the years when my employers frequently sent me to the States on assignments, I took a University course in American political studies. As a requirement, I wrote an essay that compared the Canadian government prior to confederation with the early US system. I noted that they had an elected legislature as we did. They had an elected president; we had an appointed Governor General. In each case, the leaders selected cabinets as they saw fit, rarely from elected members of a legislature. The only real difference: they elected their president. However as time progressed and we became a confederation, things changed. The administrative authority moved from our Governor General to a cabinet drawn from elected representatives and led by a prime minister. I argued that the US system had not changed in over 200 years, while ours continued to develop. I even had the audacity to say that American's appear unable to change. My big mistake: I forgot the professor was an American. He never countered my arguments, just blasted me for questioning their system.

I still believe that Americans cannot or will not change in most areas of life. As an example, think of the metric system. The Americans cling to an ancient system of measurement while the rest of the world has metricated. True, some Canadians still weigh themselves down with pounds and ounces.

A major difference between Americans and Canadians grows out of the founding of our two countries. Americans bought their 'freedom' from the mother country at the point of a gun. Canadians negotiated change. Today, Americans still try to purchase 'freedom' for peoples of other countries with guns. Canadians lean toward peacekeeping and negotiation, although in recent years some of us have got caught up in an outdated American approach.

Now the differences show up in health care. As I see it, most Americans believe that individuals must accept the responsibility and pay for themselves. Canadians lean toward the concept that we should be 'our brother's keeper', making sure no one suffers from lack of medical care. Americans argue that 'all men are born equal'. Canadians know better and realize people die because of inequality. We do not have a perfect system, but because we believe in change, it continues to improve.

I'm not sure the US will ever get a better health-care system. Indeed, some have already suggested reverting to that age-old tradition of shooting the president to stop change. As we encourage them to improve their health care, let's stay out of the line of fire.

We recently watched a series of television shows that stand in sharp contrast to the usual television fare. The hero, an officer of the law, didn't hesitate to use lethal force when circumstances demanded it. However, in contrast, he showed kindness and concern for others in trouble, regardless of age, sex, or race. Although attracted to the leading female in the show, a woman of questionable repute, he treated her with respect and dignity. Unlike many shows, they kept their clothes on, not spending half the time jumping in and out of bed with each other. We watched episodes that dealt effectively with issues such as murder, honesty, forgiveness, love, marriage, and male bonding. How can one crime drama outclass the frontrunners such as Law and Order, CSI, NCIS, andBones?

I can think of two positive things to say about current crime shows: you won't find better acting anywhere, and you will learn technical or scientific things from every episode. However, I can identify at least four other things that have made me want to throw out my television set.

The audio production, like much of modern music, puts more emphasis on ambience and irrelevant detail than on the spoken word. The characters walk down the street discussing important details with street noise drowning out their voices. Similarly, people in work places have radios blaring and machines running so viewers must strain to follow conversations. Eventually, Anna and I look at each other, shake our heads, and change channels. You might correctly argue that we're getting old and our hearing has lost its sharpness. Isn't that true of a large percentage of the television audience? Give us a break. I spent years in radio and TV studios and know that capable engineers can balance background noise so that it gives correct ambience, at the same time allowing listeners to follow the conversation.

Next comes production quality. They shoot against a busy background that often draws the eye away from the real centre of interest. They switch from scene to scene or pan rapidly so that viewers miss the point. Again you might blame us. Old eyes have more trouble decoding rapidly changing scenes.

Also, writing or storytelling in modern TV dramas rarely meets the best writing standards. Many begin with short scenes that involve a number of characters-characters who may or may not appear again. Then they switch from scene to scene much too quickly for aging brains.

And finally, the barnyard morality of many modern television dramas leaves me cold. In NCIS one character sexually harasses and browbeats others in every episode, displaying a lack of discernment that would get him fired from any real-life job. We quit watching the program Bones because the lead character spent so much time discussing her sex life and acting on it. You might suggest we have old-fashioned standards, but you can't convince me work places have deteriorated that much since I retired. Now back to the show I discussed in the opening paragraph, a show that demonstrates good audio, story telling, and production quality without moral lapses. Gunsmoke ran on Television from 1955 to 1975. A friend loaned us the DVDs. What really bugs me: if they could do it 50 years ago, why can't they do it today?

A recent e-mail written in Scottish dialect got me thinking about languages and how I have made them a hobby for most of my life. Unfortunately, that old adage, 'Jack of all trades, but master of none', fits me when it comes to language learning. Of course, I like to think that doesn't apply to English where I have gained some expertise.

It all started in the first grade. Having arrived recently from England, I spoke a different version of English than my classmates. When I said words like scawf instead of scarf, they tossed puzzled looks my way. The less courteous in the class laughed out loud. It didn't take me long to adjust my pronunciation to Canadian. Eh?

Before I turned 16, Mother moved to BC while I stayed behind with a Norwegian family to finish the school year. I tried to learn Norwegian in the few weeks with them, succeeding only in mastering a few greetings and translating the song Here Comes Santa Claus from English to Norwegian. A rather foolish thing with Christmas still six months away, and with me unable to carry a tune.

Many years later I tackled Koine Greek, the language of the New Testament. This resulted in my most successful language-learning experience. I took an hour off work for four mornings each week throughout two college semesters. To my surprise I came first in the class with a mark of 94%. Now I must jump ahead a few decades. Last year my daughter applied to study for a Master of Divinity degree and found she needed two semesters of Greek. When she chose to take it in eight weeks by correspondence, I saw disaster approaching. I told her I had received 94% in Greek. She said, "Are you challenging me?" The outcome? Illness cut her eight weeks to six, but she still earned 97%. I imagined myself as clever, but the little smarty walked all over me. Even worse than getting clobbered by my daughter, I have forgotten most of the Greek I learned.

Before going overseas, I took a course in linguistics. In South Africa Anna and I studied Afrikaans until we had a usable grasp of it. The boys took it in school and soon surpassed us. Next we began learning Zulu. That terrified us when we discovered that Zulu speakers don't change the end or beginning of words to alter tense or meaning; they change a few letters in the middle of the word. I saved myself from complete embarrassment by returning to Canada after the third lesson.

In preparation for a writing assignment in Indonesia, Anna and I studied their language, Bahasa Indonesia. In an attempt to show how much I had learned, I wrote out the first sentences of a chapel message in Bahasa. I began speaking in Indonesian, then cleverly pushed my notes off the lectern, saying, "Oh, I have dropped my notes. I will continue in English."

However, a student jumped up and returned the notes to me. Language wise, I just can't win. Seriously, the more you learn of people's languages, the better you understand their culture and lifestyle.

By the way, I have written this column in a subset or variation of English known as E-prime. Never heard of E-prime? Get out your dictionary.

Have you ever watched one of those cop shows on TV? You know the kind: a cameraman goes on patrol with the police, and videotapes the officers as they interact with members of the public. In almost every show you will see at least one episode where a suspected felon resists the police. Often two or three officers must wrestle the man to the ground and cuff him before he gives up. He knows he hasn't got a chance. He knows the police have the legal authority to apprehend him. He knows he can't win, but he resists for resisting's sake. Yes, I said man, but we all know that occasionally women resist in the same fashion. And what surprises me even more: sometimes large corporations do almost exactly the same thing.

In a surprising example, the CBC has chosen to wrestle with The World Health Organization (WHO). As a recognized world authority WHO has asked the news media to stop using the term swine flu, requesting that they call it H1N1. The CBC has chosen to ignore the voice of authority and in the ensuing wrestling match could cause collateral damage.

Although I had noted the CBC use of the term, I learned much more during a conversation with Gord Sloan of Guelph. Four decades ago Sloan lived on a family farm, so his rural background has given him an insight and interest in agriculture--much better than most city dwellers. Some months ago when he heard of a new strain of flue dubbed 'swine flu', he realized it could have adverse effects on the hog industry. Indeed, a study commissioned by the Guelph-based Ontario Pork Producers indicated that Ontario producers lost $9 million because of depressed commodities prices in the first four weeks following the introduction off the term swine flu.

It doesn't have to be that way. In April, the WHO indicated it would not use swine flu to describe the disease, but call it instead H1N1. Although the media has been largely slow to follow suit, the federal government soon did. Recently, delegates at the Tri-National Agricultural Accord unanimously endorsed a statement asking media to cease using the technically incorrect name for diseases.

Where does Gord Sloan fit into all this? He has stepped into the fray and challenged the CBC to stop wrestling with the WHO, the federal government, and the hog producers. By the time I wrote this, he had challenged a comment on the CBC website in which they suggested it would be confusing to change how they referred to the illness given they had previously called it swine flu. Sloan's efforts to contact them about that article succeeded in opening an e-mail exchange with Vince Carlin, the CBC ombudsman. Carlin agreed to review the issue; he had received more than 60 complaints about their persistent use of 'swine flu'. In a report to Sloan, he argued that swine flu is "an accurate descriptor and is scientifically more precise than H1N1."

Sloan and many others concerned about the welfare of those in agriculture reject that. Congratulations to Gord Sloan who has had the courage to jump into the fray. Getting into a public verbal wrestling match doesn't involve the physical dangers of a street brawl, but requires a good degree of courage.

Anna and I just faced one of those episodes that brings people face-to-face with the uncertainty of life. The fact of life's unpredictability becomes obvious as we age and various bodily mechanisms begin sending out error messages or shut down completely. No, we didn't dash off to the emergency room or doctor's office because the timing chain on Anna's heart slipped a notch or my plumbing clogged up. We didn't face a doctor in an examining room or step off a treadmill to receive a diagnostic body slam. In truth we've had most of those things happen in days gone by. No, but we did something equally scary; we went to see a lawyer to update our wills.

Whenever I think of wills. I recall my brother's lack of one. He thought he didn't need a will because the law where he lived said that when a person died intestate, the powers-that-be would divide the estate between surviving siblings. He assumed therefore that everything would go to me and my sister, so why bother with a will? He didn't realize that his two half- brothers and one half-sister also qualified; so instead of receiving half of his estate, I received one fifth. Although no big deal from my perspective, he would not have wanted that.

We realized we had to get on with the job of preparing a new will for ourselves when we read our old wills, dating from 15 years ago. First we noted that we had designated dollar amounts to various family members. Even with my lack of arithmetic skill, I soon realized we no longer had that much money. Years ago we had read a caption on the licence plate of a motor home that said, 'We are spending our kid's inheritance'. Recognizing that as a great idea, we started doing the same. You can't give away what you don't have.

Second, we read through the list of special bequests that we had attached to our previous will. This list identifies who gets things like the silverware, the dinnerware, the piano, my library, and my collection of elephants. Actually, the piano got our attention. We had designated that it should go to a daughter-in-law. Had we died with this list still in force, the executor would have faced a serious problem. We had sold the piano years ago and at about the same time the daughter-in-law in question became what we now fondly call our daughter-out-law.

In all seriousness it wasn't such a big deal. The real issue came when we noted this suggestion in a letter from the lawyer. 'I would recommend the preparation of Powers of Attorney for Personal Care so that your appointed attorney(s) can make health care decisions on your behalf in the event of your incapacity'. We had not done this before, so we had to begin by asking ourselves these questions: To whom do we trust such a major decision? Is it fair to burden one family member with such a heavy responsibility? We are still working through that issue.

The main point here is to gently suggest you get a will or update the one you have. True you'll have less to leave to others when you get the lawyer's bill.

We have done it again. We have survived another Scottish invasion. Most of us, whether or not we have Scottish blood flowing in our veins, try to go along with the yearly cultural celebration. My Dad always insisted the Wiseman family originated in Scotland, although he never identified a specific clan. I liked that idea and even picked a wife who has Scottish ancestry. She traces her clan connection through her maternal Grandmother, but that limited amount of Scottish background contributed in a major way to her makeup. When in Scotland a few years ago we visit Dunnottar Castle, the seat of her clan, the Keiths. I did not make a hit when I stood in the old building, staring up at an overcast sky through a long-gone roof, and said, "Your folks sure didn't take care of the place."

I expressed pride in my Highland heritage until a couple of things happened that got me wondering. For the first one, I'll take you back to South Africa. A couple with whom I worked, Sipho and Phuti Bhengu, became fast friends. One day they told me they had adopted me as Phuti's brother. Although I didn't realize it at the time, that made me a member of the ruling Zulu clan, therefore related to King Goodwill Zwelithini kaBhekuzulu, and to Mangosuthu Gatsha Buthelezi, Paramount Chief of the Zulus. So there you go, why brag about being a member of an unknown Scottish clan when you can claim membership in the royal Zulu clan?

Reading about my Zulu 'relatives' I discovered their Kings had reputations as great warriors and cruel dictators who would face any army, African or European. I began to compare them to my Scottish side. As a Canadian, I knew the Scots as great explorers, rugged settlers, and successful business people and bankers. Considering the major differences, I again began putting more emphasis on that part of my heritage.

When Phuti had an opportunity to tour Scotland she visited museums and historical sights. There she saw scenes of Scottish warriors going into battle, armed with all sorts of hideous weapons. She heard stories about the terrible wars between Scotland and England. Back home, she said, "Until I saw those pictures and heard those stories, I thought you had come from some sort of higher civilization. Now I know better. Your European forefathers were just as bloodthirsty as mine."

Then I wasn't sure I wanted to be Scottish anymore. At least as a Zulu, I belonged to the royal clan. Now decades later I find myself living in a Scottish town transplanted into Canada. Soon after moving here, my wife dragged me to the Scottish Festival so I could learn to appreciate Scottish culture. She loved the sound of the pipe bands, but all I could hear was a blood-curdling shriek intended to unnerve or terrify an opposing army. Another point for the Zulus; their armies had never resorted to such a nasty weapon of war.

Then our family genealogists made a startling discovery. They followed branches of our family tree back to Scotland, to Sir William Wiseman, a member of the first parliament of Robert the Bruce in 1307. Now it looks like I'll have to become Scottish again for more than just three days of the year.

Back in June I told you about my daughter-in-law Starlene, a.k.a. Star, and her plan to jump out of an aircraft at 10,000 feet near Victoria B.C. Before telling you what happened, I'll repeat the basic story for those of you who may not have read the earlier account. Following a short-term mission trip to Guatemala, Star decided to raise money for Wells of Hope, a charitable organization that drills wells for villages that lack clean water.

The idea to ask people to sponsor her skydiving feat came right out of her own life experience. Her husband, a commercial pilot, flies the airplane from which skydivers jump, so she knew what such a stunt would entail. The story becomes almost unbelievable when you know that Star has a paralyzing fear of airplanes, especially light planes. In fact, until the day of the jump, she had flown only once in a light aircraft. In Star's mind, her crippling fear made the project worthwhile. She thought if she could overcome her worst fears and so help the people of Guatemala, maybe others would offer financial help. Many took the challenge, including a few Wellington Advertiser readers.

Star and her husband Ken set the jump date for July 25 and spent all their spare time fund-raising. When the day arrived, feeling fairly calm and strapped in front of an experienced skydiver for what they call a tandem jump, Star sat on the floor of the aircraft as it climbed to 10,000 feet. Only the pilot has a seat in a jump plane. She said she felt little fear until the door opened, but then terror gripped her, she stiffened, and clamped on tightly. Ignoring her wild protests, they pried her free and pushed her from the aircraft. The jump master later said, "We wouldn't have done that normally, but she made us swear to get her out no matter what she said or did."

Over the telephone, when I asked Ken if he turned the plane so he could see her going down, he said, "Yes, on the 30-second, free-fall part of the jump, I saw nothing but flailing arms and legs." I could imagine the mischievous grin on his face as he added, "I've done what many men would like to do: I threw my wife out of an airplane."

I asked Star if she prayed on the way down. "No," she said," I screamed all the way. I didn't see anything of the beautiful scenery. I don't even remember reaching the ground or the trip from the landing place back to the airport."

Star succeeded on at least two levels. I doubt if she will ever make another parachute jump, but she knows she can face her worst fears head on and overcome them. She also knows that when called upon to help people in need, she can make a commitment and carry through regardless of the personal cost. Indeed, the few thousand dollars she raised will make life better for some people in Guatemala, maybe even save lives.

In an e-mail to me Star referred to herself as 'Crazy Star'. I'm not sure the name suits, but surely the world would become a much better place if we had more Crazy Stars.