Ray Wiseman's Professional and Personal Site

Recently, someone asked me, "When do you plan to retire?"

I laughed, saying that I'd already tried retirement and found it didn't work. Actually, I retired early from Rogers Engineering in 1992 so that I could spend more time writing. Even before leaving there as a technical editor/writer, I had started writing and editing for the Christian aid organization, Partners International. By April of 1991, I had written my first regular column for The Guelph Mercury Senior's Magazine. So in a sense, I started my retirement career even before retiring.

In that so-called retirement, I authored my first book, I Cannot Dream Less, published by Partners International. I kept writing for them until about 2005, having written three books and nearly 100 articles and editorials for their Partners magazine. During that time I also published three other books, and since then I have added two more. One book became a Canadian best-seller and another won an award.

I continued writing regular columns and occasional features for The Mercury and seven other newspapers and magazines until the late 2002 when I ended my relationship with The Mercury. I continued the occasional piece for other publications and moved my periodic column on-line. In July 2004, I returned to newspaper writing with a weekly column in The Wellington Advertiser.

I continued writing special items for various publications, but became busy during the last six years critiquing manuscripts, typically for first-time authors. Because I write from a Christian world-view, and because I have helped so many other writers, in 2009 The Word Guild and Tyndale University College and Seminary presented me with the Leslie K. Tarr award. The award bears the words, "In recognition of an outstanding contribution to Christian writing and publishing in Canada." I feel humbled being listed among other recipients such as Rudy Weibe, Grace Irwin, Janette Oke, John H. Redekopp, and this year's winner, Jean Little.

After I received the award, they called Anna forward and presented her with a special award which bears the words, "Presented to Anna Wiseman in recognition of her exceptional support for the writing career of her husband, Ray Wiseman, winner of the 2009 Leslie K. Tarr Award."

This draws Anna into the picture. For years she acted as my executive secretary, bookkeeper, proofreader, and manager. Her name appears on one book as coauthor, the book that won an award. She has been a major part of every success in my life (and no part of my many failures). About four years ago a doctor diagnosed her with 'probable Alzheimer's'. This doesn't mean she has Alzheimer's, but she does have serious short-term memory loss. I now do all those special things she once did, with the exception of proofreading. She still far outperforms me in that field. It also means that I have now taken over the majority of household tasks. Thanks to my mother's training, I can even cook.

Most of you will have figured out where I'm going with this. You have just read my last weekly column for The Wellington Advertiser. Although retiring from facing that weekly deadline, I hope to continue writing on a reduced level.

A special thanks, and an "I love you" to all my faithful readers.

Talk about earthquakes. The floor of our second-storey apartment shook. The lamps rocked, my big green chair trembled, and a ceramic figurine vibrated across the end table and smashed onto the floor. A horrendous noise accompanied the shaking, like the sound of an air-hammer smashing concrete just yards from where I sat.

I had dozed off in my chair. Typically, I waken slightly confused or disoriented. This time I acted no differently. It took a few seconds to realize some mysterious force had not transported me into a war zone. Neither had I experienced a destructive earthquake akin to the one that struck Haiti. In truth, just outside my window, a workman with an air hammer was demolishing the balcony. Our landlord had set out on a restoration project that included rebuilding the balconies.

Throughout my life I have managed to avoid war zones and riots, even though Anna and I have travelled extensively, often into troubled places. Neither have we met up with natural calamities like earthquakes, destructive winds, floods, nor pestilence. The closest we came to such experiences was reading about floods, tsunamis, earthquakes, and riots in the very places we had travelled. But usually those things happened months after we had passed through.

The most scary travel experiences occurred aboard airplanes. On a flight from Johannesburg to Amsterdam we touched down at Nairobi. On takeoff, the tower reported that a tire had burst on our 747. The flight continued to Amsterdam where the captain ordered us to take the brace or crash position as we prepared to land. False report: the plane landed smoothly with all tires intact. On a flight across Indonesia as we approached Jakarta, we entered a terrible storm. The captain ordered the crew to take seats and everyone to fasten seat belts. The plane rocked, lightening lit up the sky off the wing tips; we prayed and hung on. The plane landed safely. A fellow passenger said, "Typical landing in this part of the world."

Truthfully, I experienced more dangerous things as a child in Alberta. In the late 1930s and early '40s we had vicious dust storms that roared in unexpectedly from the west, darkening the skies so that we had to light the lamps in the day time. At times they blew in windows or moved buildings off their foundations, but I don't recall anyone dying as a result of them. In the winter I saw temperatures drop so low it made trips from house to barn unsafe and froze water in the well. Again, I never heard of anyone dying, but it must have happened.

At a recent gathering of 24 typical Canadians, I asked if they in their lifetimes had experienced tragedies that had resulted in destruction of their homes or deaths. I suggested they include a direct hit from a tornado, a flood like the recent one in Pakistan, an earthquake of the sort that ravaged Haiti, an airplane crash, or a war or insurrection. All of them said, 'no', with the exception of five who lived their early years in Europe during World War II.

As Canadians, we complain a lot. But most of us don't know how good we have it in Canada when compared with almost every other place in the world.

I grew up in a town served by one protestant church and one catholic church. We all attended the same school, played on the same teams and drew friends from both sides of the religious divide. Typically, we never asked newcomers which church held their allegiance. We knew our parents didn't agree on faith issues, but that never influenced our friendship.

The protestant minister and the catholic priest treated each other with respect. Everyone admired the Sisters of St. Joseph, who ran the local hospital. So when you grow up in a community like that, shock sets in on discovery that not all neighbourhoods think or act in the same way. When I came to Ontario, I noticed a change in the religious environment. Even though still a youngster, I detected less tolerance.

I count myself fortunate to have grown up amid religious tolerance. The way our parents and society socialize or condition us determines the pattern for the rest of our lives. Unfortunately, this works for negative as well as positive things, for tolerance or intolerance, or for good or evil.

I admit I had influences in both directions. My parents, like most, had imperfections.

When Mother found herself with three children and no income, she took life by the horns and with sheer physical and emotional power wrestled most problems to the ground. When that didn't work, she learned to manipulate the system to protect and provide for her offspring.

Being a bit of a coward, I learned more about manipulating than meeting issues head on. Somewhere in mid life my manipulating trapped me in a difficult and embarrassing situation. Finding myself looking into a virtual life mirror and not liking what I saw, meant I had to work hard to change the approach my mother and circumstances had unintentionally bred into me.

Not surprisingly, my youngest son early developed great talents as a manipulator. Fortunately, he figured it out and redirected his energies to become an excellent negotiator. We all become what parents, circumstances, and experiences make us, but sometimes we can change paths along the way.

The physical and sexual abuse of children has become a big issue in the media in recent years. It has always existed as a serious problem, but only recently have we as a society recognized it and chosen to deal with it. In case after case, court documents and scientific studies have indicated that men and women who abuse children, themselves suffered from abuse while young. The horrors that people inflicted on them, they in turn imposed on the next generation.

How often do we see parents, deeply hurt by separation or divorce, deliberately or unconsciously, using their children to get even with their ex-mate. Or sometimes they use them simply to vent their frustrations. Either way, they have launched the child toward failure in later life. And so we reach the obvious conclusion: a negative experience in a child's life duplicates itself in the following generations because persons injured by people or experience, in turn injure others. More simply put: hurt people hurt other people.

We are fortunate indeed if we can separate life's positive experiences from the negative and live a life free from hurting others. And even more fortunate if we can identify children in bad situations and offer constructive help.

The family gene pool has blessed Jill, my sister's daughter, with a quick wit and a slightly twisted sense of humour. You can always spot her presence in a crowd by the laughter rippling through the group. Recently she e-mailed me asking for help with a minor project. I complied; that pleased Jill and brought a speedy response. Her thank you note contained twelve words: "You're the best. I don't care what my mom says about you!"

Of course I laughed. I knew Jill and my sister and saw only humour in the remark. I got the point quickly, because the same family traits that characterize Jill also contributed to my make up. In other words, I understood Jill because we are two of a kind.

I grew up near Aunt Emily who obviously owed her personality to a slightly different selection of genes. She never understood my sense of humour and delighted in telling me that my big mouth would one day get me killed. Her evaluation contained a lot of truth for during my teen years I had a number of close calls. Not everyone appreciates the bent sense of humour of a Jill or Ray.

Sometimes we can open our big mouths, intending humour, only to unintentionally hurt someone or ourselves. Just a few days ago I said goodbye to my friend Jim as he climbed into the passenger seat of his car while his wife took the wheel. My too-speedy brain triggered me into saying, "I see they have finally caught up with you and taken away your driver's license." They pulled away with only a wave for a response. You guessed it. His doctor had advised him to avoid driving while on a particular course of medicine. When I realized what I had done, I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Not everyone wants to be funny. Some people use quick rejoinders just to put down people, to deliberately hurt them, and so to boost their own sense of importance. Just last week I heard of two examples. The seminary student finished her sermon and went to the door to shake hands. Instead of the typical "amen" response, the first man to come by, verbally attacked her for preaching too long. She had in fact gone three minutes beyond the allotted time. Fortunately, those who followed expressed appreciation for her message. In the second example, I heard of a teacher pushed into depression by the thoughtless comments of a school inspector.

I've had a few of those in my day. Totally inappropriate comments following a sermon, or letters to the editor from people who didn't agree with what I wrote or, more often, didn't read carefully enough to understand. I've also had a few zingers from people who didn't like how I drove, what I wore, or even how I combed my hair (when I had hair). Some of them meant well and delivered truth, but too many offered their rejoinders, put downs, or squelches simply to boost their own sense of importance. It surprises me that I haven't slipped into depression numerous times.

But I think I know the answer. My advice to young preachers, teachers, and writers when under fire: learn from it, forget the offence, and forgive the offender

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was the era of rent controls; it was the age of civil rights. It was the season of heat; it was the season of cold. It was the age of wisdom; it was the age of foolishness.

Not two countries. Two landlords. You can easily find them in the same county, maybe even in the same community. Both claim to have the interests of the tenants in mind. Both will assure anyone interested they follow all the rules set out by the Landlord Tenants Act. Ah, but there the similarity ends.

Landlord 'A' has a new building. When tenants move in, they enter units unsullied by human habitation. This landlord prides himself that he has contributed to the greening of the planet. Every unit faces south so that it soaks up the sun. He has installed the latest energy-saving features, banning equipment that uses excess power, including window air-conditioners and overhead fans. He has demonstrated his concern for his tenants health by banning smoking in the building. That ban includes hallways, every unit, even the balconies. Children, the elderly, and infirm can live in a smoke-free environment. The building code requires the utmost safety regarding apartment windows, so none of them will open more than four inches. Because all windows face south, no unit can experience even a minimal cross draft.

Do the tenants of this building appreciate living within this model of architectural perfection? Tenant 'Jo' says, "We never see the sun from morning 'til night because we pull all the blinds to try keep out the heat. During this summer hot spell, the bedrooms never drop below 30 degrees Celsius. We moved here because it has an elevator and my husband can no longer handle stairs. But the heat will kill him more quickly than climbing stairs. If we had known what we know now, we would not have moved in. We plan to get out as soon as we can find something else. And as for smoking, when we complained about violaters, they sent out a letter."

Landlord 'B' has an old building, which he has chosen to renovate. The air hammers and compressors nearly drive the tenants crazy. While workmen rebuild ancient balconies, boarded up windows and doors block access to balconies and reduce light into the units. Huge machines squat around the building and crowd the parking lot. Inside the landlord has begun repainting and repairing, and has even declared the building smoke free. All incoming tenants must commit, not only to not smoke anywhere in the building or on balconies, but to stop visitors from doing the same.

Surely tenants must hate living in what emulates a war zone. Tenant 'Stan' says, "Wow, this is wonderful. We will soon have a safer, better-looking building, and our fellow tenants with allergies or emphysema will have freedom from tobacco pollution."

I haven't explained one big difference between the landlords. Landlord 'A', whose actions don't demonstrate real concern for the tenants, is a branch of government. Landlord 'B' who put tenants' comfort, safety, and wishes up front is a numbered company designed for investment purposes. Surely, he can say, with the Dickens character, "It is a far better thing that I do."

Those of us fortunate enough to reach our late seventies, sometimes have to justify our actions to the younger generation, as this tongue-in-cheek letter suggests.

Dear Family,
I know, you all thought we had slipped a cog or two by deciding to buy a Lees-ure Lite camper trailer and go for a cross-Canada trip. A couple of you shook your heads and suggested people in their seventies have passed prime, must stop doing foolish and dangerous things, give up driver's licenses, and check into a care centre of some sort. That would stop us from doing even over-night camping trips, let alone lengthy excursions.

Well, in fact, we have survived a downpour and nearly froze one night. But calling on the wisdom gained over the decades, we bought a tent heater the next morning.

Just remember that your crazy Mom and Dad dedicated a lifetime to doing the unexpected. In our 20s we sold our business and went to college, travelling to Saskatchewan in a 35-foot trailer with two preschoolers. Talk about being nuts. In our thirties I took a practically-no-pay job with no thought for future financial security. In our forties we packed up four boys and moved to South Africa to do mission work. With you guys in your teens, we returned to Canada where I worked for a corporation and changed my profession for the third time; actually, make that the fourth time. In my fifties I travelled North America for the company, and then added world travel that took us through our sixties and into retirement.

So what's out of character for this couple in their late seventies deciding to explore Canada in a little car and a mini-camper trailer?

Well, okay, we did have problems on our first test runs. The manufacturer claims that anyone can open the trailer in seven seconds. No kidding, seven seconds from the time you snap open the latch until you can step in out of the rain. I timed it. It took me 12 seconds. But then the rain hadn't started, or I might have done it in seven seconds. Closing it takes a little longer--you have to pack it carefully and tuck in all the tent material as it folds up. Seven seconds? No, it took seven hours. Sorry, make that two hours. However, after a discussion with the dealer, a rereading of the instruction sheet, and practice, I now have it down to seven minutes.

On our first night buckets of water fell on the campsite, part of the same storm that hit Midland. We stayed dry, but the awning collapsed. Our fault. Now we know how to set it up properly. True, despite rain and cold, we haven't faced the real dangers of camping: bears, moose, coyotes, tornados, and serial killers, but we'll handle those things should they come along.

Just remember, all of you follow in our footsteps. David in his fifties has bought a huge BMW motorcycle, Ken in his forties flies a jet plane over ice infested waters to Greenland, and Linda breaks horses, which in turn break at least one of her bones every year. So we promise not to worry about you, if you promise not to worry about us.

Love from your crazy parents,
Ray and Anna

I sat down to write this soon after the television broadcast scenes of rioting on the streets of Toronto. We saw wanton destruction by a group calling themselves the Black Bloc whose actions had nothing to do with the meeting of the G20 world leaders. The rioters simply used that gathering as an excuse to practice their personal philosophy: anarchism, a belief that all forms of government are unnecessary and should be abolished. They knew that under the cover of others staging peaceful protests, they would draw a lessor response from the police.

What did they do? They covered their faces; smashed windows; beat up a female bank guard; burned police cars; threw various missiles; assaulted police officers and innocent civilians; implored others to join them; then ran like cowards into alleys to get rid of masks and black clothing.

Unfortunately, some other people who came to stage a peaceful protest got caught up in the mix and the police arrested them in error. Everyone who takes part in a protest should expect that anarchists will try to take advantage of the situation and muddy the waters. Those arrested in error should quit whining and express thanks that the police arrived to do a difficult job protecting lives and property. Protests become more meaningful when protestors pay a higher price than expected. When they get arrested, even by error, they should wear that experience like a badge of honour.

Only people with courage will take part in a peaceful protest and remain to face repercussions. But cowardice marks those like the Black Bloc who hide their faces, do destructive acts, and then immediately run.

During our time in South Africa, we observed a group of white, female protestors who went by the name Black Sash. They protested the government policy of apartheid. They did not riot, burn police cars, beat up women (or men), throw rocks, or run into alleys to hide. Instead they stood silently in front of court houses or other official buildings wearing a black sash to identify their cause. With their silent presence, they hoped to touch the hearts of South African voters and the people in power and in that way effect a change in society. Occasionally, they paid for their activism by suffering a beating from people with a different political agenda.

My son Brian when 12 years old, in a very quiet way staged a peaceful protest. While in South Africa he became friends with Bonga, the son of an African preacher with whom we worked. One day Bonga came to visit. At the day's end Bonga prepared to walk downtown to catch a ride home and Brian volunteered to walk with him. When they reached the local railway station and needed to cross the tracks they encountered two bridges, one marked for 'Whites', the other for 'Non-whites'. Brian defied the signs and opted to cross with his black friend. A group of white boys playing in the adjacent park saw him and jeered. Later, with tears flowing and fists clenched, he told me the story, saying, "I'd do it again."

In my considered opinion, it takes more guts to join the Black Sash than the Black Bloc. Sometimes it takes equally as much courage to walk with a friend over life's difficult bridges.

I recently celebrated a birthday. It doesn't matter how many, but far more than I care to admitto.

Growing older has advantages. We can keep busy with the things we really enjoy. In my case I write for publication and critique manuscripts for beginning authors. As a kid I had dreamed of being a writer/editor, and now I live that dream.

I've had other dreams fulfilled, so I sent my memory scurrying back over the years looking for highlights. I realized the most exciting moments had little to do with work and most in some way connected to my childhood. One that occurred just a few years ago saw me at the controls of a World War 2 flying boat. I clung to the controls from Pelee Island to Brantford, reluctantly releasing them so the owner could land it. He wanted to stay alive and knew any attempt on my part to get it down would result in the cessation of life. As a preteen, when war raged in Europe and the Far East, I had dreamed of flying an aircraft into battle. Flying the ancient machine fulfilled a 60-year-old dream but with a major advantage: I didn't have to duck enemy fire.

My memory browser darted back over many more years to age 40 and came to a halt on a South African hillside. Seventy-five years previously my dad had served as a scout with the British army during the Anglo-Boer war. I had dreamed about, but never expected to visit the land he fought over. I didn't expect to live in a house looking down on the road he had taken into Johannesburg. Years before my birth Mother had planned to go to Africa as a missionary. Her plans had fallen through, but I had achieved them. A sense of fulfilment almost overcame me. I stood on the continent of my father's great adventure and my mother's lost dream. Little did I know that great moment would turn into one of life's darkest experiences.

Whoops! Hang on, my memory is now dragging me back to my tenth year. During our time on the Alberta farm, mother had told me about a marvellous, miniature, live-steam engine that pulled a train around a track in London's Springbank Park. She had shown me pictures of it. I dreamed about it, but knew I'd never see it.

But we moved to London. We went to Springbank Park, bought tickets, and climbed aboard the tiny coach behind the engine. I watched in wonder as the engine puffed and wheezed then accelerated to its normal running speed--about ten or fifteen miles per hour. I glued my eyes on the engine and the heroic man seated on the tender. He wore regulation coveralls and an engineer's peaked cap. An oily rag fluttered from his pocket. The little train from the faded photographs had come to life. Then the unbelievable happened, the engineer invited me to ride the engine with him and blow the whistle. That seemingly little adventure had made worthwhile our move away from my friends in Alberta.

Often we remember and cherish the little experiences of life rather than our great victories or successes. Those little things help blank out our failures and darker moments.

The ongoing reports of drunk driving punctuate the fact that our society has not solved the problem. Does the fault lie totally with the drunk driver, or should all of us accept some responsibility?

Again a touch of guilt carries me back to an episode of nearly three decades past. For months I woke up often with a feeling of foreboding. It arrived like a dream in the waking moments of the day with the realism of a videotape. I could see fellow worker, "Joe" at the wheel of a speeding car, driving in a drunken stupor. The 'dream' ended as he struck another vehicle and both cars erupted in flames.

When the premonition occurred, and on most other days, I would check the radio to see if anyone had died in a flaming crash. Hearing nothing I would relax for the rest of the day. Joe occupied the next office at work. We all liked him, but knew he drank heavily and drove while drunk. He laughed at admonition, sure he could handle a car no matter how much he drank.

On a day I had not experienced the premonition or tuned in the radio, I walked into work whistling and with a bounce in my step, only to see moist eyes and long faces everywhere. "Haven't you heard?" asked Don.

"What?" I asked.

"Joe died in a car crash last night. He had been drinking with a friend. They hit another car and burned to death. The couple in the other car got out with serious injury. Joe was such a great guy. We will miss him."

I didn't say a word, just marched into my office in anger. "Joe a great guy?" I said to myself. "Well he just killed himself and a friend. How can anyone call him a great guy?"

I paced back and forth for a few moments thinking words not normally part of my vocabulary. For the next few days I heard nothing but tributes to Joe. Each time I heard more comments about what a wonderful guy he had been, I grew angrier inside. The company closed down for the funeral, but I didn't attend. Time passed and Joe's ghost vanished from the office and my early-morning omens never recurred.

I have often asked myself why I got so angry. Maybe I became angry to cover my inadequacy and guilt. I had known about Joe's drinking and driving and warned him of the danger. I could have enlisted others to help convince him to seek help, to get counselling, to face the truth about his lifestyle. Should I have ratted on him, getting the police to lay for him? I had done so little, even after receiving those early morning warnings. Had God sent me a message, intending me to intervene? I had done nothing.

Did I get angry because society still allows people like Joe to commit awful crimes?

I still don't have all the answers, although I have forgiven Joe. I can't go back and change history, but I can say this: If you see a potential Joe, do something before he or she ruins the lives of others. Do it before your inaction generates a load of guilt that will take years to shake.

Some years ago I wrote a column that quoted statistics suggesting 78% of Canadians believe hunger is the government's problem.

Most of us don't have a first-hand acquaintance with hunger. My siblings and I spent most of our childhood years in poverty, but we never experienced hunger. Ofttimes we felt the cold. Usually we wore hand-me-downs enhanced with patches. Much of the time, we played with used and broken toys. But we never, never went hungry. Many other Canadians had difficulty during the '30s and '40s--and so did the rest of the world, including some Americans.

In 1939 John Steinbeck wrote about those years in his novel, The Grapes of Wrath: "The fields were fruitful. And starving men moved on the roads. The granaries were full and the children of the poor grew up rachitic, and the pustules of pellagra swelled on their side. The great companies did not know that the line between hunger and anger is a thin line."

The closest I came to hunger happened when my doctor diagnosed diabetes and ordered weight loss and a strict diet. I followed all the rules and, twenty years later, weigh much less and control the diabetes with diet. But I write nonsense if I equate hunger with the minor discomfort of eating less food.

I got my first real sense of hunger when I visited the Philippines and saw the gaunt faces of children living in poverty-stricken barrios or begging on the streets of Manila. Even today I can close my eyes and replay vivid pictures of deprived children with faces deeply distorted by feelings of anger. I felt their hatred directed at me, a wealthy westerner by their standards, standing at the edge of their village and daring to eavesdrop on their hurt and shame.

In previous columns I related how that emotional experience cut so deeply that I personally responded to world hunger by becoming a vegetarian. Just in case you get the wrong impression by thinking my reaction purely philosophical, I also began sponsoring needy third- world children.

Now that election fever has become a fixed part of our culture, our leaders frequently recount statistics and make appeals concerning child poverty. Unfortunately, even in Canada child poverty can also mean child hunger. Some politicians even go so far as to promise the end of child poverty if we vote for them. But it never happened when they promised to end it a decade ago, and it won't likely happen

if we again leave it to government. When we settled or immigrated to this country, we became a society of individuals who now find it almost impossible to think collectively. So if we ever beat the problems of child poverty and hunger we will need to do it individually one child at a time. Yes, we will need to teach personal responsibility, but we must reach into our own pockets and give of our own time to ease the problem. We need to get involved with organizations having similar goals. When we expect government to do it, we really say, "It's not my problem; let others pay."

If once again we leave it to government, history says it won't happen.

In my opinion, if 78% of Canadians really believe hunger is the government's problem, we have become a nation of buck-passers

Just sitting in the heat a few days ago turned me from the happy, uncomplaining fellow most people think I am, into a miserable whiner. Once I get started complaining, I sound much like the axle on a farm wagon that hasn't seen grease for a year.

I sat in my chair remembering other times the heat had got to me--like the trip across Montana in my black Austin in 1952. I had bought a black car because I didn't know any better. In August, as we rolled along U.S. Highway number 2 with the temperature at 104 degrees Fahrenheit, I learned why I should not have bought a black car. It attracted heat like a magnet attracts nails. We perspired until our clothes became waterlogged. The car had a sun roof, but when we opened it to get air, the sun beat down on us prompting me to slam it shut. Instead of air conditioners, cars of a half century ago had those little three-cornered windows or vents on the leading edge of side windows. You could adjust them to move air into or out of the car. I spun the one on the driver's side to blast air in, but snapped it shut when incoming air practically burned the skin off my face. I swore I'd never again buy another black car or drive across Montana in summertime. I've broken both those promises, proving some of us never learn.

Next I recalled a hot time in South Africa. We had volunteered to help with maintenance at a mission station during Christmas holidays. South Africa has reversed seasons with Christmas occurring in midsummer. The mission station was located in the Orange Free State--flat prairie country, the South African equivalent of southern Alberta or Montana. I recalled pictures of my father bivouacking in similar country during the Anglo-Boer War. I remembered him telling me that the African sun would heat the metal parts of his rifle so they would burn the skin off his fingers if he touched them. I dropped my tools to the ground, leaned on a nearby fence post and dreamed of those days of long ago. Deciding I'd better get back to work, I bent down, grabbed the tools, screamed in pain, and looked at the red welts on my hands. As I said, some of us just never learn.

Heat doesn't always mean discomfort. I recalled a pleasant experience on the farm in Alberta on a hot August day. We had moved from the farm to town and I, a 14-year-old, had returned alone to do some minor job around the buildings. The sizzling heat had got to me when I noticed a drum of water abandoned in the middle of the yard. I could see no one on adjacent farms, so I stripped off my clothes and 'streaked' through the yard to the drum, as bare as a maple tree in mid winter. I leaped in, immersing myself to my neck. It felt wonderful--until I heard the sound of a car labouring up the coulee hill toward the farm yard.

Okay, I'm wrong. That time I learned something. I never tried that stunt again. But then, I've never again found an abandoned drum of water on a hot day.

What would you do to your grandmother if she stubbornly insisted on warning you against entering a certain place of business? What if she stood at the door and graciously asked, "Do you know the dangers you will encounter if you enter there?"

Can you picture a grandmother doing that? I can hear her saying, "Please Son, don't go into the casino, you can't afford to lose more money." I can see her standing near the entrance to a bar, saying, "Please Daughter, don't enter there, or you will give birth to a child with fetal- alcohol syndrome." I can imagine her standing on the sidewalk outside a school, saying, "Please Grandchild, don't light that cigarette. It will damage your health."

Do you realize that every time Grandma (or anyone else) takes a conscientious stand, she will find a major industry or government department opposing her? Every time she makes a nuisance of herself the powers-that-be will manipulate and lobby until they convince the courts to pass an injunction against her. And if she in conscience ignores the wishes of big industry or government, they might put her in jail.

That grandma exists. Her name is Linda Gibbons. She has been in jail for years, not because she upset the gambling, liquor, or tobacco industries. She earned the antagonism of the abortion industry. Yes, it is an industry: governments spend over $50,000,000 of your money each year to procure the more than 100,000 abortions.

I haven't written this to reopen the abortion debate. That issue itself didn't put Linda in jail; denial of her free speech and right to protest put her behind bars. Linda's 'crime' consisted of standing near abortion clinics speaking one-on-one to pregnant women explaining that if they consent to give birth they will escape the feelings of guilt that she felt as a young woman following an abortion. She tells women things their doctors might not have told them, about the complications they might experience after an abortion. She spoke only to those women willing to give her the time. Linda Gibbons, who never so much as frowned at a woman contemplating an abortion, let alone blocked her way, has now spent more than seven years in maximum security prisons.

Can you believe that someone in Canada can land in jail because he or she has a burning passion and feels the need to speak about it? Although an extreme case, Linda Gibbons story does not stand alone. While hers came about as a so-called criminal action, lobbies and pressure groups can cripple free speech by hauling an offender up before a Human Rights Commission. Those of us who write for publication know that we must not offend certain minority groups for fear we land before a tribunal that has the ability to assess penalties while not following normal court rules.

A panel of three judges will have heard Linda's current case just days before you read this. She has appealed against the 'temporary' injunction of 1994 prohibiting anyone from standing in an arbitrary 60-foot zone around an abortion facility. This must be the longest 'temporary' injunction known.

The Canadian constitution says: "Everyone has . . . freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of the press . . ."

Unless you get too passionate.

I sat at my computer, my fingers fluttering aimlessly above the keys, with my brain frozen and devoid of creativity. I must write a column--now. The doorbell rang. I didn't need an interruption. Stomping to the door, I opened it, and stepped aside as a big guy pushed past. He moved to my big green chair, and sat down heavily with a groan. The groan came from the chair, not the visitor.

Now I groaned. "Bert, what a surprise. I didn't know you had returned to Ontario."

"Back for a visit," he said, "How about putting on a cuppa. Then tell me how you're doing."

I headed for the kitchen, thrilled to see Bert, but annoyed that I couldn't get a column written. Only one thing worse might happen when I had only a couple of hours left until my deadline and every lobe of my brain experiencing a drought. The worse possible thing? My friend Gord might call from Hong Kong to share his latest escapade; he could talk for an hour at any time of the day or night.

Bert called to me in the kitchen, "I'm sorry about Anna's memory problems. I read your column in last week's Advertiser.

I made the tea, returned to the living room, and picked up a copy of last week's paper from the rocker so I could sit down. As I did so, I lifted it near my eyes to see what I had written about last week. Ah, yes, Anna's memory problems and her solid faith.

A black frown slid across Bert's face, "What's wrong with your eyes? When do you plan to get cataract surgery?"

"I've had that done to both eyes," I said. "They call this problem preretinal membrane."

Bert's furrowed brow and pursed lips made me realize he really cared. I forgot about my desperate need to get a column written and began to talk about myself. Bert does that to people. "Our body wears out as we grow older," I said, "At age 15 I needed glasses, at 42 bifocals. Then in my seventies I developed cataracts, and now the left eye has started to fade. If I make it to my eighties, I'll need laser surgery."

Bert leaned forward and put his teacup on the side table. "You'll always have sight. God gives us humans another kind of eye--the eye of the soul, the ability to look within people, to peer directly into them. I'm sure you have that gift, so you'll never become completely blind. Maybe one day you can forget about reading words on a page and spend time reading your fellow man."

Never before had I heard Bert wax so eloquently. Neither could I recall him mentioning God in a way that suggested he actually believed in him. I'd have to switch the conversation from me to Bert to find out what had happened in his life since we last met. But at that point he stood up. "I've got to go," he said. "I'll come back tomorrow."

In the vacuum of his absence, I pondered his 'eye of the soul'. I'd have to spend more time thinking about other people, but now back to my column. However, the phone rang.

"Well hello Gord," I said. "How are things in Hong Kong?"

Some months ago I told you about Anna's struggle with short-term memory. The doctors simply call it "probable Alzheimer's." She has done fairly well, but unlike many people she has something powerful going for her: a strong faith.

As a kid she memorized the Bible passage, 1 Corinthians 10:13. In the King James Version it says this: "There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it."

She has wrapped this verse around herself and held on tightly for a lifetime. In our early years when things went wrong and I fretted, she smiled sweetly and said, "God will not let us be tempted beyond what we can bear."

In the 1970s in South Africa, Anna made good use of the permits given to us as missionaries to visit the huge African-only area, Soweto. She went there to teach school classes and attend weekly women's meetings to encourage African women in their faith. Every Sunday, Anna and I attended church services at an African church in the township.

During that time of "apartheid" racial tensions existed, and even some fellow missionaries would ask Anna if she felt afraid visiting Soweto. She usually just smiled, knowing God would not allow her to face bad situations without giving her a way to escape. Some worried what she would do if her car broke down. She'd answer with her sweet smile and say little.

One day when driving through Soweto with another missionary woman, a tire blew, stopping the car. Rather quickly, a group of African men surrounded the car. When she rolled down the window, one of them said, "You have a problem. Can we help you?" They quickly jacked up the car, changed the wheel, put the flat in the trunk, and wished her well as she drove away. God had given her a way to escape by sending rescuers from among the people others told her to fear.

On another occasion Anna had a more serious problem. When travelling with two other missionary women through Soweto, two white men in a car forced them off the road. They identified themselves as policemen and asked for their permits. Their permits had expired because the new ones had failed to arrive. The women had considered it more important to keep their commitment to their African friends then to obey the letter of the law, so had knowingly ignored the expired permits. After threats to carry them off to jail, the officers relented and issued summons.

Anna must have been worried throughout that adventure, but I don't recall that she showed it. Once again, the Lord provided a way of escape: the court prosecutor threw out the case because the government had failed to mail the permits on time.

Anna and I no longer spend time overseas, however that doesn't mean the problems of life have left us. Now we face the aches and pains of growing older and Anna deals with the issue of loss of short-term memory. Despite this major difficulty, she still smiles sweetly and clings to her faith.

As I watched America's Funniest Videos (AFV) the other night, I began to think of all the funny situations in my life that would have qualified as prize-winning entries. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, nobody had a video camera to capture each hilarious scene. I told you about one of them a couple of weeks back. You will remember that I sat just behind the dashboard in a buggy. The horse who had recently gorged on green feed, lifted his tail and covered me with manure. Horses often embarrassed me in my younger days.

When I was about eight, Mother bought a horse and buggy. On a beautiful summer day, with Mother at the reins and my sister and I seated each side of her, we went visiting. Nearly at our destination and without warning the kingpin fell out freeing the horse, shafts, and front wheels from the rest of the buggy. We landed three in a row on the dirt road, shaken but unhurt. The old horse, happy with the lighter load, just kept going until a farm boy on a bicycle stopped him and brought him back. We shook off the dirt, put back the pin and continued on. Although we didn't laugh, that episode would have caused a riot on AFV.

Fast forward a few years; in my early teens mother bought us riding horses. Brother Harry got a saddle with Daisy. I got stuck having to ride Tony bareback. On our first ride, Harry lead off. Returning to the barn, Daisy broke into a gallop and Tony matched her pace-- straight toward the open barn door. I hung on, low on Tony's neck, with my hand twisted in his mane. Terror gripped me as he ignored my pleas to stop. If Tony raced through the door it would knock me off. As I prepared to jump for my life, Tony suddenly stopped spilling me on the ground. I landed on my back beneath him, my feet in the air tangled in the reins. People watching that on AFV would have laughed. I didn't, but to this day I'll swear Tony did.

We sold Tony, but kept Daisy. One day I rode her to Charlie Wiseman's place. That branch of the family trained and raced thoroughbreds, so I felt a touch of pride riding up to their gate. I dismounted, opened the gate and led Daisy through. To demonstrate my skill in case someone was watching, I took a running leap into the saddle, but misjudged, overshot, and landed face first in the dirt. I'll swear that horses laugh.

After we left the farm, I bought a 1951 Austin. One day I stopped to pick up Mother who was approaching down a grassy slope toward the car. In the two seconds that I looked away Mother vanished. In the next instant I heard a sound beneath the car. Leaning across the seat, I threw open the passenger-side door and looked down into Mother's face. She had lost her footing, slid down the slope, and became wedged under the car with just her head and shoulders protruding. The strange sound? She was laughing almost uncontrollably.

That time I laughed, thankful for a mother with an infectious sense of humour. She would have been a hit on any TV show.

Northrop Frye said, "We must reject that most dismal and fatuous notion that education is the preparation for life."

Actually, I can't think of anyone with less formal education yet more prepared for life than my parents. Dad, born in the 1870s, attended schools only until the fifth or sixth grade. Yet he rounded out his early life as an accomplished athlete, edited a sports magazine, scouted with the British army in the Anglo-Boer War, worked as a fish and game merchant in England, and then farmed successfully in Canada.

I find it hard to believe that with a limited grade-school education, he served as a magazine editor. When Dad married Mom, she always sat with a dictionary at the table. Every time he used an unfamiliar word, she would look it up. She claims that she never once caught him using words incorrectly. Early in Dad's time in Alberta, a scholarly individual passing through town met Dad. After a few in-depth conversations, the scholar, realizing he had met an equal, asked Dad, "Did you attend Oxford or Cambridge university?" Although I can imagine the grin spreading across Dad's face, I have no idea how he answered.

Much like Dad, Mother never finished primary school. Although often mixing British colloquialisms into her everyday speech, she expected us to speak the King's English. Like Dad she had pursued various careers including a stint in the military and as a cook in wealthy homes in England then in Canada. She liked to tell people she had gone through medical school. It seems she had visited the school, entering through the front door and exiting by the back door. In fact she did have some medical training. When in London, Ontario, she attended a night school course in home nursing, taught by a struggling young doctor: Frederick Banting.

These people provided me with my genetic nature and then nurtured me. When I left home I didn't say things like, "Me and my brother, like, you know . . ."-or other speech patterns that today pass for the language of even the educated. The primary schools of my parents day and mine not only stressed appropriate language, but also coached in social skills. Along with my parents, teachers taught me to say, "My brother and I," not "Me and my brother." They taught me this not just because the rules of English say it, but also because common courtesy demands that the speaker always refers to others first and to himself or herself last.

So how is it that my parents and many of their contemporaries, people with limited education, spoke and thought as if they had attended one of the great universities? And on the other hand why do so many graduates of today speak the language of the street? Should we blame the primary, secondary, and post-secondary schools? Or does the fault lie with this technical age in which communicating with machines has become more important than communicating with people? Do we blame the parents of today's language-challenged young people? I suspect all these factors have contributed.

I guess for a definitive answer, I should discuss this with the youth of today. I would, but you know, like how do me and them rap when I can't, you know, text?

The ghost of war rarely reaches out and lays a cold hand on my shoulder, however I often see him peeking from the shadows of memory or leering from the pages of the newspaper. I began writing this a couple of weeks back as we celebrated the 1917 Canadian victory at Vimy ridge. That battle became a turning point, changing the world's attitude toward Canada; indeed many Canadians also developed a new appreciation of their country. Canadian troops succeeded where others had failed. Wikipedia says it this way: "Historians attribute the success of the Canadian Corps in capturing the ridge to a mixture of technical and tactical innovation, meticulous planning, powerful artillery support, and extensive training. . ." Canadians suffered 10,602 casualties of which 3598 died.

Soon after reading about the celebrations of the Vimy Ridge victory, the newspapers carried the story of another Canadian soldier dying in Afghanistan. At least in this modern war, our Canadian troops suffer fewer casualties. Regardless, past or present, we seem unable to escape the sadness of war.

As a child growing up on the prairies, our battery radio brought the sounds of the Second World War right into our home. Almost 70 years later, I still remember the voice of the CBC announcer, Lorne Greene, bringing us war news. His rich voice and onerous delivery earned him the nickname, The Voice of Doom. The war ended in my twelfth year, spoiling my dreams of flying a Spitfire into battle.

However, the icy fingers of ghosts of the earlier war managed to reach into our lives. Mother had joined the British Army Auxiliary Corp during the first world War. In 1917, she served as a cook in France, feeding British troops as they went to the front. In a location not far from the action, enemy aircraft would slip through the covering fire from anti-aircraft guns and drop bombs into the camp. In that more chivalrous time, they would not likely have done so had they realized they were attacking a camp full of women. The bombs got to Morther. They called it shell shock and sent her home. She moved to Canada and for a few years when it thundered or a car backfired, she would shake in terror and hide under a table. It happened even in church. The preacher would say," Don't worry about sister Florence; she was in the war."

In 1947, two decades since her last attack, we sat around the table in our farm home. Mother had just stood up to get something when a thunder clap shook the house. She began to tremble from head to foot, grabbed onto the table, but didn't dive under it. For what seemed minutes she stood trembling while three children gaped and stared. Then just as suddenly, the trembling stopped. She said, "I'm okay," and went about her task.

The war from three decades earlier had reached through time and touched three children seated around the dinner table. How fortunate we were that the effects of war rarely reached us.

The children of Iran and Afghanistan will experience the aftermath of war for many decades. They won't feel the simple discomfort of a scare around the dinner table, but the life-long pain of broken bodies and psyches. General Sherman got it right: "War is Hell."

Ever had a horse hug you? Personally, I've been stepped on by a horse, kicked at by a horse (he missed), fallen off a horse, and body slammed by a horse, but never hugged by a horse. An acquaintance recently told me of a horse he once owned. He taught it to greet him with a hug by passing its head over his shoulder and pressing against his back. Months after selling the horse, he visited it at its new owner's place. It greeted him with a hug. Horses know how to treat a friend.

You can learn much from animals. Our poodle-terrier cross, Scamp, taught us about love. Scamp adopted a kitten as his own. He would sleep and eat with it. If it cried out in the yard he would recognize its voice and practically tear down the door to get out to protect it. If a full-grown cat threatened his kitten, he would prepare to attack even though the enemy out- weighed him. Usually he put on such a good show that the invader fled, leaving him to lead his adopted kitten to safety. Scamp knew how to back up real love with muscle.

As a teenager, I learned a major lesson from a race horse. We leaned against the wooden fence and watched the thoroughbreds jockey into position on a fall afternoon in the town of Alliance, Alberta. My much-older half brother Charlie had entered two horses in the race that Saturday. We could see both of them from where we stood: three-year-old Jackie's Girl positioned near the rail with much older Flash-K in a less-favoured place. Charlie had put Orville on Jackie's Girl. He had ridden Flash-K to many victories in the past and now prepared to use his expertise to guide the young filly to victory. An inexperienced family member sat awkwardly on the back of old Flash-K.

"They're off!" crackled the loudspeaker as the field of four-legged contestants thundered past on the dusty track. Jackie's Girl moved into the middle of the pack even as they rounded the first turn. Flash-K, loped along in the rear as though out for a Sunday stroll. Coming around the second bend Orville coaxed Jackie's Girl into third place; Flash-K and the inexperienced rider still trailed hopelessly in the rear.

Into the final stretch, Jackie's Girl and Orville gained second place and moved against the leader. With victory in sight, the whole Wiseman clan began to scream and cheer. But a horse race is, after all, a horse race. Suddenly, a brown form hurtled two lengths into the lead. We became silent in stunned disbelief, then exploded again when we recognized the miracle winner as Flash-K.

The ageing veteran, ignoring the urging of the young rider on his back, had conserved his energy until the last minute, then for a few seconds performed like a three-year-old. He limped badly as he slowed to a trot, then down to a walk to make his victory pass. Flash-K retired that day. He never raced again.

I don't suppose I understood Flash-K's message at the time, but now as I grow older, I get it. Give life everything you've got; you never know when it's your last race.

Remember that expression? Horse feathers, an old euphemism for horse . . . , well let me just say "horse manure." I vaguely recall Dad using those words when he didn't believe something that he had just heard. If anyone has the right to mouth those words today, I do. I don't remember my exact age when it happened, but we had moved from England to the Alberta farm about two years previously. So that would likely make it early summer of 1938.

Dad didn't possess many domestic skills so he looked for a place to park me one day during a time Mother was spending a week in the hospital. Aunt Emily and Jess offered to help out, so I landed at their place about a mile across the fields.

Emily wanted to go shopping that day. When Jess came in from the fields, following lunch and a half-hour nap, he hitched his best horse, Beauty, to a buggy and we set off for town. Beauty had needed the lunch-hour break as much as Jess; she had spent the morning with her teammate pulling a binder, cutting green oats for use as animal feed. Because Jess believed that the ox (or the horse) is worthy of its hire, he had let Beauty pig out on the fresh "green feed." While Mom and Pop would have squeezed me between them on the seat, Emily and Jess, being newlyweds, didn't want anyone coming between them. They placed me on a low stool between their feet and the dashboard, with my head just high enough to get a good view of Beauty's backside. We swung out of the yard and onto the dirt road on a glorious day with the smell of new-mown hay and green oats permeating the air.

I actually saw it coming, but couldn't move fast enough to get out of the way. Indeed, I had no place to go in any case. Beauty raised her tail and let loose a stream of green manure that poured over the dashboard and engulfed me from head to toe. While Emily wiped my face with a handkerchief, Jess swung the buggy back homeward. Emily didn't wait to heat water; she dunked me, protesting and screaming, into a washtub-full drawn straight from the well. Jess cleaned up the buggy, collected Emily's shopping list, and headed for town.

Oh, but the embarrassment didn't stop there. Emily heated water and washed the green manure from my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear-yes, and even my shoes. I had no change of clothing, so she dressed me in her bathing suit. Thanks to Aunt Emily's tiny stature, it almost fitted. In fear that someone might see me dressed, or half dressed, in a woman's clothing, I spent the rest of the day hiding under the dining room table, emerging every half hour to ask of my clothes flapping on the line, "Are they dry yet?"

A Sunday or two back, Hugh told me he enjoyed reading my columns, especially those about my days on the prairie farm. So there you have one Hugh. I hope you enjoyed it. I didn't at the time. Believe me, it really happened, but when I think of it I just shake my head and say, "Horse Feathers."

Some days I feel like I'm going around in circles. I almost never get colds, but one struck with a vengeance on the way home from a visit to the Guelph General Hospital.

Speaking of hospitals, illness, and circular thinking brings me back to today's topic: windmills. A potential wind farm near Belwood makes this a current issue. A friend, who happens to be a doctor (the medical variety), challenged me to write a column on wind farms--a real challenge when I don't pretend to know anything about them. However, a limited amount of research told me that doctors have had a lot to say about wind farms, both for and against.

Whenever a new energy form comes along, people tend to line up on both sides. Not that wind power is new. Thousands of years ago people in all parts of the world stuck up masts and sails on boats and saved a lot of work for the oarsmen. I wonder if people opposed sailing ships because a sudden blast of wind could flip them over. I know some folks got really uptight when engineers began equipping ships with steam engines. Those things had a habit of blowing up and sending the ship to Davey Jone's Locker.

Folks in Holland got the idea to use large windmills to pump water through canals. What happened when the wind died down? Did the fields flood? Or did the crops die because of lack of water? I wonder if the neighbours complained about their bigness and ugliness. When I grew up on the prairies, every farm had a windmill to pump water from a deep well to supply house and barn needs. Most have disappeared now, but at that time they made money for in folk Fergus, because almost everyone bore the name 'Beatty' on the vane that held them to the wind.

Okay, let's have some serious thoughts on modern wind turbines. My doctor friend has one. He says it doesn't work. He quotes experts who say they are only 21 per cent efficient. According to the Medical Post other doctors have weighed into the argument. Radiologist Dr. Martha Leadman, says the 'strobe-light' effect of the turning blades could disturb people and trigger epileptic seizures. She also expresses concern over noise and especially pulsating low- frequency noise which has been known to cause sleep disturbances, depression, migraines, and cognitive problems.

Dr. Robert McMurty questions why standards for wind farms should be so low when people have so many unanswered questioned. American, Pediatrician Nina Pierpont warns against 'wind tunnel syndrome' and possible effects on the inner ear.

But another group of doctors says the naysayers are all wet. Three doctors with the Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment say there is "no peer-reviewed scientific evidence to suggest that wind turbines are themselves harmful to human health. Dr. Colby acting medical officer for Chatham Kent found no negative impact from wind turbines. He says the rotation of wind turbines is totally wrong for causing seizures in susceptible people.

You might ask me, "Ray, having done this limited amount of research, what do you think?" I told you in the title and first paragraph that like a wind turbine, I'm blowin' in the wind or going around in circles.

Every Thursday morning, Anna and I go to a coffee hour. Well actually, more than Anna and I go; a number of other folk also attend, along with a good assortment of donuts, cookies, biscuits, and squares. When I mention squares, I'm not referring to the human kind, although now and again one or two of them also show up.

Folks of various ages come, but because we meet in a morning when most people work, seniors usually form the majority. And you guessed it, when oldsters get together they start telling jokes with aging frequently figuring in the punch line. A week or two back, somebody mentioned doctors-another common topic among the geriatric set. We tend to talk about doctors frequently because, next to our grandkids, we see doctors more often than anybody else.

Then someone said she had a doctor joke, grabbing the attention of all of us. Her story went like this. It seems that an older gentleman, while undergoing a medical exam, asked the doctor how he determined when a senior patient should go into a nursing home. The doctor explained the test he used. He would put a patient into a bathroom with a bathtub full of water. He would then give that person a bucket, a cup, and a spoon and ask him or her to empty the tub.

At that point in the story, I thought, "Only an idiot would use the spoon or cup instead of the bucket and so qualify for a bed, not just in a nursing home, but in a padded room." Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut, and the storyteller continued with the joke. She said that the patient responded that any normal person would use the bucket to empty the tub, proving he wasn't ready for the nursing home. However, the doctor shook his head saying that a normal person would simply pull the plug. He then asked the patient, "When would you like to check in?"

For a moment I felt the walls of a padded cell closing in. Of course, the bathtub story was just a joke, but to demonstrate that humour tracks along with us older folk, I'll tell you a true story. A friend called me last week. While I do have one or two younger friends, this fellow is an old guy, at least one year older than I am. When he said that he had gone skiing the previous Saturday, I wondered if he had slipped a cog. "What are you talking about? You told me you had scheduled knee surgery for next month. Now you tell me you went skiing?"

He answered, "True, and I also have an appointment with a surgeon to get my shoulder repaired."

"So," I said, "Don't you think that under those circumstances you should stay away from dangerous winter sports?" He paused for a moment. I thought I could hear fingers scratching on a bald head. Then he said, "Well, I did wonder about that when I fell down and couldn't get up."

As I suggested earlier, humour and seniors walk through life hand in hand. But I will admit something: in our serious moments, most of us will insist there is absolutely nothing funny about growing old.

Two weeks back I wrote about the dangers prairie kids faced getting to school in midwinter 60 or 70 years ago. If you thought that scary, read on about our summers.

When the snow disappeared, the school-van drivers mounted the old wooden vans on running gears made from retired Fords. Pulled by a team of spirited horses, a van had a top speed equal to the Model T that had supplied the rubber-tired chassis. If a runaway occurred as the van started downhill, it could reach more than 30 miles per hour. That happened with me on board a day or two before school ended one spring in the mid 1940s.

The driver allowed a teenage boy to take the reins. He carelessly let them slip from his grasp so they slid through the slot in the front door that opened over the wagon tongue. The horses took off at full gallop with the reins dragging on the ground between them. Why do horses always want to show the world how fast they can go? As the van rocked on its chassis, the kids on board leaped backward from the rear door, hitting the road running.

As we watched the van thundering downhill, we could not see the driver who performed like the cowboy he pretended to be. He opened the door at the front of the van, walked the wagon tongue between the galloping horses, leaped on the back of one, scooped up the reins, and stopped them. We all ran down the hill, retrieving the driver's Stetson on the way, and climbed on board to continue the drive home. None of us received injuries worse than a scrape or a bruise, but we could have died.

The same coyotes who stalked us on dark winter mornings hung around all summer, but now we turned the tables on them. Discarding fence posts as weapons we armed ourselves with 22 calibre rifles and stalked them. I personally never got one, but I did serious damage to gophers and crows. One day, frustrated by my lack of hunting prowess, I took aim at a sparrow inside our driving shed. Before I could fire, it fled. I dropped the rifle down with such force it discharged. I had been standing on a discarded board, making it easy to see where the bullet had entered a fraction of an inch from my little toe.

I often hunted with a friend, Verne. Picture two armed teenage boys prowling the countryside. For a reason that not even a teenager could understand, I decided to carry my rifle behind my back with both arms hooked over it at the elbows. We walked side by side with Verne opposite the business end of the gun. I thought nothing of it until I returned it to a more appropriate position and discovered I had left it cocked all the time.

I grew up in summers equally as dangerous as winters. I don't have space to tell of the near hits with farm tractors and machinery. My friend Verne died about 60 years after that hunting misadventure. When I think back, it amazes me that either of us lived beyond our teens. Don't belittle young people today. Those I know have more safety sense than we did.

I have never had much interest in watching sports of any kind. But this year, things began to change. While surfing through TV channels in typical male fashion, I happened on CTV's coverage of the Olympics. When pictures of speed skaters hurtling around the track caught my attention, I paused for a quick look, intending to move on. But something about the skaters grabbed me and the remote dropped into my lap. The fluid graceful motion, the tremendous speed driven by healthy young bodies gripped me. Okay, I'll admit it. I had chanced upon the ladies' speed skating and found myself watching a track full of beautiful, youthful women.

Before I go on, I should explain why I usually have little interest in watching sports. Essentially, as a kid, my lack of coordination disqualified me from all sports. Mother couldn't afford good skates, so I learned on hand-me-downs that flopped over at the ankles. Running on the sides of the skates, then jumping up on the blades to coast across the frozen pond started me off badly. While in second grade, I tried hockey using better equipment, but with disastrous results. When a puck hit me in the temple, laying me out on the ice, my hockey career ended. Hey, it's a dangerous game!

Years later I tried my hand at baseball, but only because the school team lacked a player and reluctantly took me along. Amazingly, I hit a homer that won the game. I retired, knowing that I could never again measure up to my new-found fame.

My family in Alberta became famous as breeders and owners of race horses. Fortunately, I weighed too much to ride as a jockey. It had terrified me that my half-brother might ask and I'd have to admit I often fell off horses at a walk. My life as an equestrian never got off the ground; fear alone stopped me from mounting a race horse.

Back to the Olympics. Do we throw away our money when we support them? Should we spend government funds on a group of elite athletes? Should we take the advice of some demonstrators, opt out, and invest in housing for the homeless? Others suggest that we should use all that money for paying down the national debt. If ever I supported those arguments, it certainly will not happen again.

When I watched the glow of satisfaction on athletes' faces, I got the message. These young Olympians don't train to become good; they train to become the best. With that attitude as a life philosophy they will excel in everything else they do in later life. None of those marvellous young people who have mastered the physical and mental skills of competing under pressure will ever require subsidized housing. Indeed what they have learned will propel them to success in every level in life while they drag others along with them.

Those who win medals will earn so much from endorsements and other contracts that they will eventually return in taxes all the government has invested in the Olympic programme. This old sports dropout has changed his mind. Training has programmed those young men and women to win; we need more like them.

By the way, in case you wondered, I also watched some of the men's events.