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by Shirley Whittington Boxing Day is a turkey skeleton, scraps of paper and ribbon under the chesterfield, and tiny shreds of tinsel in unexpected places. Boxing Day is a tidy pile of opened gifts, arranged for display with the tickets at- tached. "To Daddy from Jimmy,"' and so on. Boxing Day is a broken decoration under the Christmas tree and a couple of burned out light bulbs that nobody bothers to replace. When I was little, I thought they called it Boxing Day because it was the day everybody lugged boxes of crumpled gift boxes to the curbside for the garbage truck. As the family grew, I understood it to be the day when overtired, over-excited kids punched each other as they competed over Christmas loot. In England, Boxing Day is traditionally the first weekday after Christmas when gifts are given to mailmen and errand boys and the like. On Boxing Day, I give myself the gift of indolence. I like to lie abed, snug as a raisin in a fruit cake. After a day of persistent smiling, during which I take on the combined | Boxing Day sales, she ~ hungup the gloves personalities of Santa Claus, Betty Crocker and the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe, I'm exhausted. All I want to do is lie around, read my Christmas books, eat my candy canes, and play with my new electric fingernail buffer. I do not cook on Boxing Day. We dine on left-overs. I do no laundry on Boxing Day: Santa leaves everybody clean socks and un- derwear. Clean the house? Not on Boxing Day. Let the tree rain needles. Let the Christmas cards fall off the piano. Let the cat drag his turkey giblets from room to room. I am off duty, and cries of "Mummy!"' go. unheeded. Ihave a friend who celebrates Boxing Day in the shopping plaza. She can hardly wait until the stores re-open so she can start stocking up for next Christmas. She phoned me, last Boxing Day, at eleven a.m. "Get dressed," said she. '"'We have to get out to the plaza. I'll pick you up at in half an hour." I didn't argue. She's a friend. The parking lot looked like a film of Christmas Eve, run backwards, as the shoppers bustled into the stores, burdened with parcels. Inside, Silent Night and Silver Bells had been filed away and the usual musical pablum was oozing from the sound system. Santa's throne was empty, and tor the first time I noticed that it wasn't a throne at all. It was a thirty dollar arm chair, extended to regal proportions with heavy cardboard, covered with red velvet. There were lots of little kids in the store, with newly knitted mitts and scarves. The girls hugged new dolls, with unrevised hair- dos. There were no exchanges or refunds in the doll department. i Their mothers were busy, small for larger, pink for green, whimsical for practical. A shopper, burdened with a mountain of flat boxes, knocked over a giant cardboard cut-out of Santa squinting through a Kodak. "Just leave it," said a salesgirl wearily. "Christmas is over now anyway." Nearby, the whole festive season was for sale, and knots of shoppers were pawing through boxes of greeting cards. "I'll take these for next year," said a lady, "'and this box of extra nice ones for special people." Her friend was coralling rolls of coloured wrapping paper. It will be twelve months before that paper is torn off and burned in the fireplace - a comforting thought. My friend was as happy as a cat in a fish packing plant. I was too broke to buy anything, too con- fused by the bustle, too dismayed by ladies exchanging love gifts of black transparent nylon for sensible flannelette. I made my first New Year's resolution. Next year, when my friend tries to hustle me off to a Boxing Day sale, I'll tell her to forget it. I've hung up my gloves. exchanging' os x =i ate as * Pct ¥ : ae Wagon rest 3 a e by Ron Jones 'he old year is ending and people th@jughout metropolitan Ontario tonight will celebrate the going out of the twentieth century and will welcome the year 2000. Christmas has just passed and the children Bringing in the year 2,000 --a look at what it could be like are busily trying out their new toys, many of which have been home made by their parents and grandparents. Few families these days have money for expensive toys as it takes nearly all of their earnings to buy food. Most foods, of course, have to be brought great distances except for the little that the family is able to grow on the land surrounding the house or on the government-owned land near the schools, hospitals and other public buildings -- land that at one time was used as recreation areas and spacious lawns. During the Christmas season the children often sat, and by candlelight listened in wonderment as the old folks told tales of the 1960's and 70's when they were young and children then had all the toys they could ever want. They were always amazed and 'their eyes opened wide in disbelief when they were told of the huge festive meals their parents had enjoyed as children and a story teller was always greeted with oohs! and aahs! when they pictured the gaily lighted trees in every home. "Why, you could even leave the lights on all night if you wished," they would say. Even a child's imagination can't com- prehend that luxury when every family in 1999 is under threat of total loss of electrical power by government order if they use more than the allotted kilowatts daily (for most, now, little more than enough to cook even the bland cereal meals they have become ac- customed te .) And when the stories are told some of the older children always ask questions like what happened to all the food and fuel and other nice things? When they ask the grandparents they often turn away and try to change the subject. They would often mutter things about stupid politicians and greedy speculators. But when the children asked their parents, they told of the days when most of Ontario was farmland and growing great crops of corn and grains that could be fed to turkeys, poultry, beef or hogs that could then be bought for meat meals. Why you could even go to the store and buy alltheeggsandmilk you could possibly eat or drink. But then things began to change. People living in towns were demanding more and more of the nice things and insisted that the government must keep the price of food down. At the same time they asked for more and bigger homes with big yards to grow grass on. Because most people lived in towns and cities the government had to aZree. Then other things happened -- the people who owned the land on which the food was grown ( they were called farmers) found that they could not buy the nice things the town people bought if they weren't paid enough for their food. They also discovered that other people wanted their land for other things like housing developments, factories or for recreation, and would pay more than they could earn by farming. So they sold their land. ee A few people could see what was hap- pening. They told the government and tried to tell the people but they were written off as pie in the sky idealists after all "didn't this Ontario become great because of industry?" And all of the 900 little governments in the province were rationalizing their poor planning by asking 'what difference will one more little house or subdivision make....?"' Other countries and some other provinces were passing laws to preserve the land on which food was grown, but in Ontario the government waited and waited. They were even buying great areas of farmland on which to build more cities The children in 1999 have been asking their parents why this was allowed to take place and they are often told that the government at that time didn't wishto make the people who were making a lot of money buying and selling land unhappy. More recently, laws were passed in an attempt to ensure the production of food, but by then all the best land had been.used up "But why government out?" the children ask. They are then told that most people were more con- cerned about things like whether the street was paved in front of their home, or the high- way to their town was wide and smooth, or if didn'. t the people turn the they had lots of fuel for motor cars, boats ete than they were about the future food production capabilities of their province "The farmers will always be there,' would say. "What else can they do? Often in the conversation the parents would refer to their parents as the mercenary generation. And they would gaze out the window wistfully and ponder the foolishness of people who are responsible for this Christmas in 1999 when the nicest thing on the dinner table has been cooked cereal -- if they the family had really splurged, a bit of ground meat from South America or Australia might have been imported at a prohibitive cost. The fanciest toy under the old plastic tree was cobbled together by the children's father in the few hours of light before and after work or by candlelight And they would say to themselves "How could humans have been so_ horribly irresponsible? And why must it be our children who must suffer their folly? Ron Jones is a Tay Township farmer and free-lance writer. by Vianney Carriere I don't at all believe in New Years Resolutions, mental or written. It is too ar- bitrary a time to promise to onesself that one will do or refrain from doing anything. But if I did, I would enter 1975 resolved to do thus: Next year's flashback of New Year's resolutions 1, In 1975, I shall abandon all self respect in view of the possibility that perhaps it really does work, and I shall begin talking to my plants. I shall greet them in the morning and read Sartre to them at night. I shall unburden myself to them and speak of my fondest hopes, fears and desires. I shall read my poetry to them. 2. In 1975 , I shall be career conscious and career conscientious. I shall not ignore assignments and phone checks, nor shall I drink on the job nor skip out early, nor rush my writing because quitting time is at hand. The fact I have more than once been threatened with dismissal should any of those circumstances be noted again has nothing to do with this resolution. 3. In 1975, I shall limit myself to falling in love four times, four being an arbitrary number coincidental with the number of seasons 1975 is likely to have. Should there be more seasons, I reserve the right to recon- sider. I shall not embarrass waitresses with spontaneous marriage proposals, I shall not re-write my old love poetry, nor shall I make duplicates of love letters. I shall not belt down three drinks before every date, and I shall not offer to show my clippings, my prints or my fireplace. 4. In 1975 I shall get my hair cut and trim my beard. Possibly even shave it off ( my beard.) (My God, it's been almost six years.) 5. In 1975 I will not write bad cheques, I will pay my phone bill on time, and my Hydro bill on time. I will clear up one 1970 account for cable television, catch up on my Chargex account, my Playboy Book Club account, my Tip Top Tailor account ($2.87 owed and payable since Spring 1972), and I will pay CN Telecommunications for that telegram I sent to someone in 1972. I will donate to The United Way, buy Canada Savings Bonds and join the Credit Union: I will pay my rent on time. 6. In 1975 I will write a book. Any old book. I will read it to my plants, but shall refrain from inviting impresionable young women to hear a chapter of the hottest thing since The Beatly Bealtitudes of Balthazar B. 7. In 1975, I shall take care of Adolf. Adolf is my car, my VW, affectionately named in memory of the man who had the idea. I shall feed him oil bountifully, and get his gas gauge fixed and his door unstuck. I will lavish new tires upon him and have medical experts work upon his body. He shall be rustproofed, painted, undented, washed inside and out, waxed and shone. I will buy him new floor mats and replace the water in his windshield washers with a more suitable solution. 1975 will be a good year for Adolf. Tender Loving Care. 8. In 1975, I shall cut down considerably on smoking, drinking, The Other Thing, wat- ching television, doing. crossword puzzles and gazing out my window armed with binoculars. To replace these activities, I shall eat regularly, sleep regular hours, take long walks and cold showers, read Sartre to my plants, write a book and learn to enjoy boredom. I shall cultivate new friends, re- cultivate old friends, harvest relatives, and farm my way through the chaff of human relationships. I shall be kind to animals and children and set my alarm clock on Satur- days and Sundays 9. In 1975, I shall devote four hours a week to housework and learn to cook. I shall return empty beer cases promptly. I shall empty ashtrays promptly. I shall clean my fireplace promptly. 10. In 1975, I shall send birthday cards anniversary cards, Valentines, Easter cards and Christmas cards. Everyone will get cards this year. Even my plants. I shall read them the cards. 11. In 1975, I shall decide if I believe in God, if I want to stay in my present line of work, if I could ever become a father, what I want from relationships with the opposite sex (No, it's not that simple), if I am a good writer, if I can become a poet and what I will do when I retire. 1975 is going to be a Year of Decision. 12. In 1975 I shall finish building the model ship I began two years ago, I shall finish the short story I began three years ago, I shall get the flat on. my bicycle fixed, and I shall wash my windows. From the outside Off hand, I think that just about covers it, and let me conclude by saying that I enter the new year confident that I have the moral fiber to live up to all of these noble thoughts Nobility and strong will may not be my most obvious attributes, but I can feel now that 1975 will bring great things. I end with a fervent wish to all readers of these news papers that the new year will be as profitable for them (Note to the Editor: Just in case, could you keep this column on file, and maybe if things don't turn out, we can run it again in the last 1975 issue, as a flashback over the last year. You know, just switch the "I shall's'"' to 'I didn't's and the '"'I will's" to "I almost's". You know how it is....) Vianney Carriere is a Globe and Mail reporter living in Toronto, and a freelance reporter for Markle Community Newspapers. by Ray Baker ~"ou know this hobby of mine, writing a *»wspaper column, is not what you think it is. The feedback I get from you gentle readers is the image I used to have about columnist§ and newspapers in general. This is how I used to think it was. As a columnist, you sit down and type, throw it at the editor, who usually cuts all the good bits out in the interests of 'space', edits whatever is left, and just manages to squeeze it in a few seconds before the 'deadline'. This magic word 'deadline' seems to crop up in most conversations, imparting a sense of SOP PSS SP PP FPF F FOP OOOO OOO OO Punching holes in the deadline myth and a look back urgency and panic. Nothing could be further from the truth. Headline - Deadline The various articles, columns, photos and news items are fitted together at the newspaper's production plant and made into a 'dummy', which is a complete newspaper but with no headlines. The chief function then of a managing editor at the deadline is not to get the paper together, but to think of instant headlines to suit the contents and fit in the space available. So...in order to minimize his (or her) worries, the editor usually asks for columns like this one to be on his desk well ahead of the publishing deadline. Like two or three weeks ahead, and this is where it gets in- teresting. First the title. Having written the thing I'm convinced that the writer is the best person to decide the title. Most people (unless they are regulars) will scan the title and either read on, or not. Sex, Bloodshed and Violence With this kind of title you can't lose. If you can get it past the editor. I even tried one on him called 'The title caught my eye'. But 99 times out of a hundred he will scrub out my title and put his own in, which means at least, I suppose, that he has read it. You see you're dealing with a professional headline expert. aed aie in > So let's put a few myths to bed. I don't type at all. A former secretary called Juliette does it for me from a rough (I mean rough) draft. (When her infant son grows up she will no doubt go back into Industry). Then the double spaced typewritten copy is given to the editor to mutilate and change the title long before he prints it. Which leads up to the reason I headed this one 'Happy New Year'. What the published _ title is I've no idea until I read it. Happy New Year written on a Sunday morning in very early December so it can be submitted in plenty of time. The Four Seasons Sounds like a motel, The Four Seasons, but have you ever tried to write about an, event before it happens. About Easter three weeks prior to, or New Year in early December. Luckily I managed to get into the Christmas spirit in late November for my Christmas column, A Christmas Carol. Fall can be written about in glorious August, Winter in Fall, Spring in Winter and New Year in early December, so here goes. Happy New Year for '75 as we make our New Year resolutions with good intentions which last for days. Let us look back through 1974. When we get older, '74 will remembered as the year of Watergate, with its attendant scandals. The year of energy crisis, with gas shor- be. tages and rationing in many countries, of overnight billionaires in the mid-east on the oil increase band wagon. It was the year of inflation, recession, of wars just avoided, the year sugar monopolies drove the price up and the consumer up the wall, the year of the Demeter murder trial, The Sting and Earth Quake. 1974 saw the emergence of Charlie Farquharson as a national humorist, and big line-ups for 'The Exorcist. Beatlemania finally faded out with George Harrison's last concert in Toronto. The price to keep a child from starving in Bangladesh went up 100 per cent and our egg board let millions of eggs rot Speed limits were reduced with a sub- sequent saving of lives, but seat belts were not made compulsory. Locally, the outdoor mall was shelved in Midland and a cosmetic face lift given the green light in Penetanguishene. A new hospital was started and an additional wing added to our local hospital by the hard working nuns. The maternity ward was visited by me -- as part of a tour -- and as I saw the little darlings laid out in their tiny cribs with a blue or pink bracelet on their wrists the real spirit marketing of New Year became clear For there lies our future. The old man symbolizing 1974, with a grey beard and seythe over his shoulder, slowly fades away, and in comes the new born child, 1975. As we leave '74, a turbulent, troublesome year, and start afresh, let me wish all our readers and their families a Happy Happy New Year. May you achieve your aims, realize your desires. Peace on Earth and God Bless you all. Ray and Barbara Baker and family, The long suffering editor and Markle Community Newspapers. TERRY PENN i SS SUVS YyweS Uw TS aes See wee by John Beaulieu deed