Barbs & Jabs

-30-

The jig is up.
After 30 years of trying to get it first, fast and right, my days of chasing ambulances, run-away politicians and the truth have drawn to a close.
I'm retiring.
My first job, at a fruit market in 1956, paid 25 cents an hour. I thought I was rich. I was 11 years old.
I graduated to washing dishes, waiting tables, life guarding, worm picking, hay tossing and when I walked up the aisle in 1962, I was thrown into a family business.
A marriage breakup in 1974 sent me back to waiting tables and to school. When I graduated from Durham College's journalism program two years later, I had $9 in the bank, five kids and no job.
A day later, I scored a commission-only job selling aluminum siding. Chasing a lead, I took a late night flight to Kapuskasing, only to return the next day when my boss was arrested.
With the business owner in handcuffs and a bankruptcy seal across the door, my days selling siding were over. Facing a $73 overdraft, it took me three days to sign a one-year contract as a counsellor with the Ministry of Social Services, immediately followed by a second year-long contract with the Durham Region Separate School Board, co-ordinating a regionwide volunteer recruitment program.
Since I was poor, a product of white Anglo-Saxon Protestant work ethic, a single mom and wore my heart on my sleeve, I was a good counsellor and, while never a Christian, Catholic or otherwise, I stood proud when placing 1,000 volunteers into 25 schools.
In mid-February 1978, I walked into what is now a Metroland Publishing newsroom. On Jan. 30, 2008, I'll walk out.
I'm taking a little side trip. Tomorrow, I have a date with a surgeon. After he mends a broken heart, I'll be fit as a fiddle.   
My place in my family and my career in journalism will always define me. In the past 30 years, my five hard-to-raise children became adults, nine grandchildren arrived and my mother died. Seldom did my reporter's cap come off.
Covering Durham Region for 19 years and York Region for the past 11, I have produced thousands of stories, covering everything from murders to meetings. Some stories won awards, a few ticked people off, but none turned up in a court of law — I've never been sued.
A few months ago, Metroland, representing about 140 newspapers, chose me as the reporter of the year. When I took to the stage to accept the Presidents' Award, I realized a job well done matters.
Over the past three decades, I was privileged to meet many outstanding people. Besides prime ministers, premiers and United States presidents, I interviewed a world champion rattlesnake bagger, a man sporting a diamond in every tooth and a bank robber. There have been stories about three-legged dogs, overpaid call girls, convincing transvestites, born-again virgins, at-large boa-constrictors, phony money and politicians of every shape, size and stripe.
Most politicians are honest. A few aren't. One thing I noticed: Every time a politician is arrested, the others run for cover, but not before accusing the media of sticking its nose into places it doesn't belong. While all law-breaking politicians claim to be as pure as the driven snow, the only innocent one I covered was an Oshawa councillor charged with fishing out of season.
To bring in the story, I've ran with the foxes and hunted with the hounds. It took barbed-wire willpower and absolute tenacity to open some doors. But, you got the story.
I've been a hands-on journalist. In the name of news, I rode in a submarine, flew in an air show, soared beneath the clouds in a hot air balloon and was plucked from Lake Ontario by the crew of a rescue boat after jumping overboard. I have attended a biker's funeral and accepted an invitation to the after party at the clubhouse, led a camel in a parade, got trapped beneath a raft while shooting rapids on the Ottawa River, fell face-down in the mud at a train wreck, got struck in the head by a board-wielding scab and was chastised by a judge for covering a crime before reporting it to police.
The news business was a good fit. With an attention span like a hummingbird, I got as much as I gave.
It must be said that I have a great deal of respect for the media. Its editors, photographers and reporters all play a critical part in the preservation of democracy. The people who stay in the media for the long haul are hard-working, talented and caring people who deserve a communitywide standing ovation. Even though, my loyalty has always been to the reader, I tip my hat to this ever changing, always improving and community-building industry. 
I leave the same as I arrived: in awe of the media and a very nosey person.

Pig plays possum

When a pig turns into something else, people notice.
When, on New Year's Day, Aurora Mayor Phyllis Morris sent a public works crew to check out a pig sighting in a residential area, I opted to care.
When the pig turned out to be a Virginia opossum, I cared even more.
When Aurora resident Walter Heck called to report he'd skinned a dead Virginia opossum, I listened.
When Mr. Heck recently spotted road kill while travelling in Nobleton, he decided to investigate.
When the long-time Aurora resident identified the dead as a Virginia opossum, he took it home. Mr. Heck had been telling his neighbours the little southern critters have, indeed, moved north and are now setting up house in York Region. 
When Mr. Heck's neighbours didn't believe him, he looked for proof.
When he found the dead opossum, Mr. Heck knew he had Exhibit A.
When Mr. Heck called the Ministry of Natural Resources, he got the okay to skin the dead opossum. It would be Exhibit B.
A the story about the pig turning in to opossum was published in the Era-Banner on the weekend.
When Mr. Heck turns up at your door waving copy of the Era Banner and a opossum skin, welcome him in.

A few tears does the campaign good

The ice queen has melted, kick-starting a when-all-else-fails cry movement.
When a tear fell in New Hampshire Monday, it bolstered Democrat Hillary Clinton's chances of sitting in the big chair come November.
Hillary's rare show of emotion is the talk of the town.
"Maybe I have liberated us to actually let women be human beings in public," the presidential hopeful told the media.
It may be OK for Hillary to cry her way to the White House, but I hope she reserves the good stuff for the world stage. I'd pay good money to see the next president of the United States throw herself to the floor and throw a good old American temper tantrum for all the world to see. 
No doubt Hillary realizes, in the name of equality, tears must now fall in all U.S. states. Since the race for the White House has turned sad, Hillary should practise lip quivering, silent sobbing and lady-like whimpering.

Callers hog mayor's time

For the sows of Aurora, it's still the Year of the Pig.
If the first questions in the New Year are any indication of what's to come, Aurora Mayor Phyllis Morris is in for a heck of a ride in 2008.
When the phone rings at the mayor's house, it's worth answering.
At 8:30 a.m. Jan. 1, the mayor and her husband, Brian, were all snuggled in bed when Patrician Pemberton of Jasper Drive called to report a pig was sitting in her back yard.
The mayor and her constituent agreed: if it looks like a pig and snorts like a pig, it is a pig.
Our mayor jumped from her bed and called the town's public works department and gave the order: climb from the snow plows and sanders and go catch a pig.
When the public works guys got to Mrs. Pemberton's house,  the pig was gone, but the public works crew did see little pig tracks running off the property and into the far reaches of the town.
The mayor only had 24 hours to wonder why the pig left town.
At 8:30 a.m. the next day, the mayor and her husband were, again, all snuggled in bed when a woman called to complain that when an Aurora variety store sells condoms, the clerk asks for ID.
So, in addition to doing regular mayor stuff, Mrs. Morris is pig hunting and checking the law books to see what dos and don'ts are linked to condoms.

Questions to kick off new year

Right off the top of my head, here are a few questions to kick off the New Year.
To the world: How can democracy be the best defence if the leader of a major political party is anointed?
To Canada: Instead of Prime Minister Stephen Harper offering the same words of condolence every time a Canadian solider dies in Afghanistan, why doesn't he stop this sad echo by putting an end to the country's involvement in a war that can't be won?
To Ontario: Did York-Simcoe MP Peter Van Loan impress anyone when he called Premier Dalton McGuinty the "small man" of confederation?
To York Region: How much bang for the buck did York Region taxpayers get when York Region chairperson Bill Fisch and his best buds took a $26,000 junket to Italy last summer?

Cory overcame the odds

My Favourite Person of 2007 Award goes to an orphaned aboriginal kid from Keswick.
It was, indeed, a privilege to meet career soldier Pte. Cory Wallace.
Unlike most, Pte. Wallace, tries to make sense out of it all.
I met Cory just days before he was deployed to Afghanistan. His aboriginal heritage explained his haunting good looks, while the story of his upbringing reminded me people can beat the odds, pull ahead of the pack and exceed beyond anyone's expectations.
"Pick your friends wisely," is Cory's advice to young people.
Cory was born addicted to heroin. His mother, an addict, was not able to care for him and when, at 43 years old, she died in a crack house, it was a very sad time for his family, Cory says.
Drug addict or not, she was still his mother.
While Cory was practising self-preservation and respect for others, somewhere along the way he had room for empathy — a trait paramount to becoming a good person.
During our two hours together, Cory acknowledged he didn't make it all by himself — friends, family and teachers helped him along the way. While Cory moved a lot, he somehow stayed grounded.
While I do not support Canada's combat mission in Afghanistan, I was touched by this young man's level of caring.
When Cory's 38-member military unit left Canada in June, his personal goal was to help the women in Afghanistan achieve equality. Unlike many, Cory went to war with a purpose.
Cory is quick to point out women of Afghanistan are often forbidden to go to school or leave the house without a male escort, while some can't even seek medical attention from a male doctor.
Now back home in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Cory is spending part of the holiday with family in the Keswick area. While very proud, the family is relieved Cory is back home safe and sound.
One of my New Year's resolutions is to never forget Pte. Cory Wallace.

Nation's loss hits home

My link to the late jazz great Oscar Peterson is one step in six degrees of separation.
Five years ago, my guy, Glen, and I were visiting his buddy, Pierre, outside Perth, ON. Pierre was a jazz buff and, in particular, idolized Oscar Peterson. A collector, Pierre had everything the musician produced.
During the visit, I mentioned Oscar's son, Norm, was my neighbour.
Learning this, Pierre handed me an Oscar Peterson album. It was a recording of the 1958 performance at The Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, Holland. Pierre asked if I could arrange to get his most prized possession autographed by the man himself.
With great care, I took the album home to Musselman's Lake and turned up at my neighbour's house. Showing the album to the family, I asked Norm if he could have his father to sign it for Pierre.
About 10 days later, Norm Peterson arrived on my doorstep with the signed album in hand. While I stared at Oscar's signature, Norm said his father was thrilled somebody had kept one of his 50-year-old recordings in such mint condition and was more than pleased to sign it.
It was a special day. I had just returned home from Perth after attending my guy's funeral. Glen was killed in an airplane crash and our planned future together was gone.
Soon after Norm visited, I shipped the signed album to Pierre.
Through me, Norm passed on Pierre's "thank you" to his dad, while I forwarded Oscar's words to the French Canadian jazz buff. Pierre treasures the album.
To Norm Peterson, I extend my sympathies.
While the country has lost perhaps the greatest of greats, Norm has lost a father.

Santa brings mixed bag to our holiday celebration

So, it's Christmas.
Mine, like most, is getting more diversified with the passage of time.
In our family we've got purebreds and mutts. While more are most welcome, the extended family mix now includes English, Irish, Scot, German, Hungarian, Barbadian, Filipino, Lebanese, Italian, French, Ukrainian, Swedish and the cherry on the family cake is First Nations.
When excited, many revert to their mother tongues, which means our 93-year-old German Oma doesn't speak English the entire month of December. When the First Nations kids get revved up, they revert to an Inuit dialect. 
And nothing comes close to the uniqueness of our Goths.
On the faith front, weighing in are Protestants, Catholics, new-agers, agnostics and atheists. They're made up of practising believers, non-practising believers and practising non-believers. I don't think we've got any non-believers wishing they did or believers wishing they didn't.
On the financial end, a few are in the money, most are comfortable and a few aren't. Some work too much and some not enough.
In the food department, we have diabetics, vegetarians and vegans, others are high-cholesterol restrictive or lactose-intolerant and one simply won't eat anything white. And let's not forget the two babies who have never tasted sugar.
When it comes to Christmas, we don't put our differences aside. Instead, we embrace them. After all, it's Christmas.
Hopefully, all, at some point over the holidays, will make it to the century-old Ransberry farm where our own personal Santa Claus lives. At 85, nobody loves Christmas more than my dad.
Like most families, someone is missing. In ours, it's my mother. In the midst of all the joy and sharing over the festive season, tears will fall. Our tears will be for my mother who passed away in June of 2006. She'll be remembered, loved and missed.
So to you, Merry Christmas.

East Gwillimbury mayor lashes out

East Gwillimbury Mayor Jamie Young is mad and he ain't gonna take it no more.
When, for reasons unknown, Mayor Young and long-serving Councillor Marlene Johnston participated in cutting down 83 trees at the Sharon Temple property, it was noticed.
While reading the just-released town report, I noticed some of the downed trees were evergreens, including Norway, white, Colorado blue spruce and Scots pine.
Would somebody tell Jamie the rule-of-thumb in Canada is evergreens are green forever. That's their job. Ours is to leave them alone.
Lord tunderin' Jesus, Jamie has just come out swinging.
The mayor is pointing and shaking the finger of blame in every direction but at himself. He's targeting his council, the town's senior staff, directors of the Sharon Temple and, of course, the people who carried out the inquiry and produced the tree-cutting report.
Thank the gods Jamie didn't leave us out. The media is also bad, he maintains.
Jamie, in your media release, you thanked all your friends and East Gwillimbury residents for "having the insight to question the one-sided information." But, you forgot to add you have not, despite repeated requests, returned media calls.
Jamie, it's a smidgen difficult to get "your side" when you won't talk.
Take it from a media veteran, when you suck and blow at the same time, you run out of hot air.
I do have this annoying habit — I notice how much things cost and who is to pay the freight. Now Jamie stresses the unknown cost of the inquiry is out of control.
Money's a funny thing. It doesn't care who owns it and it can dance like there is no tomorrow.
When the tree report talked money, it was clear:
• value of the trees lost: $27,000;
• cost to replace the trees: $50,000 to $70,000; and
• cost of a fence at Sharon Temple: $10,000.
Don't panic. Council has assured taxpayers the public purse will not have to open. Jamie and Marlene are getting part of the bill. Who knows who gets the rest.
Jamie, you're in a pickle. You can't get rid of your council. You can't fire the town administration all by yourself and you can't silence the media.
But you can resign.

Results of public inquiry being kept private

When it comes to transparency, colour East Gwillimbury's cellophane black and thick.
In an attempt to find get to the bottom of the inquiry into Mayor Jamie Young and a councillor turning into modern-day Paul Bunions and downing 70 trees, I'm drawing blank.
I'm more confused than frustrated.
A few weeks ago, East Gwillimbury council fell all over itself promising a transparent handling of the case.
Throughout Monday and Tuesday, local councillors held marathon meetings behind closed doors to receive, discuss and, hopefully, release a report linked to the council-called tree-cutting inquiry. Trips and calls to the town office have turned up zip.
This morning, armed with the information that the in-camera meeting would wrap up at 4:30 p.m. Tuesday, here's what's been done to put together a breaking story informing you, the public, what you deserve to know.
In the past two hours, I have placing telephone calls, cell phone calls, sent BlackBerry messages and e-mails to various East Gwillimbury staffers, council members and the lawyer overseeing the inquiry.
Here's what I have been told:
• Staff, including the town's communications officer, clerk, CEO and every other head honcho are on a retreat, destination unknown; and
• Council is not in a meeting.
The 14 attempts to get information turned up one tidbit: 
After being reached on his cell phone, Jack Hauseman told me to be patient not once, but twice. Since patience is not allowed among the media, nor is it part of my personality, I kept pressing the councillor for more information. He told me the report was being finalized. 
How can a report be finalized when staff is at a retreat, council is not in session and the mayor is nowhere to be found?
P.S. A little bird just told me the secret report would be released after lunch.
Remember, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I'll keep you informed.