Barbs & Jabs

Ontario's new f-word

Go flick yourself.
There, now I feel a lot better.
Before you get yourself in a twist, I could have said "flick off."
And, before you tell my boss to wash my potty mouth out with soap, listen up.
The provincial Liberals have launched a new energy conservation advertising campaign complete with catchy phrases "Flick Off" and "Go Flick Yourself".
If you haven't noticed it, don't worry: it's on Oak Ridges MPP Frank Klees' radar screen.
Frank's mad.
The local Conservative politician is calling on Premier Dalton McGuinty to apologize to Ontarians for what he calls an "offensive attempt" to grab the public's attention.
"The logo should be confined to the gutter or at least the McGuinty cabinet office,"  Frank said. 
"This is a new low for Dalton McGuinty. His ministers are conducting themselves more like juvenile delinguents rather than responsible managers of the public affiars. If his ministers aren't sensitive to the offensive nature of this outrageous logo, at least, the premier himself should have stopped this from seeing the light of day."
I can't decided if Frank should lighten up and get a life or if Dalton should give his head a shake. Each side of the argument has merits. 
On a personal level, I enjoyed writing "go flick yourself." 
And, God knows, it caught my attention.
On the other hand, the premier seems to be buying into the theory the public is so brain dead, it only responds to shock and awe. As well, it's possible that people will only focus on "flick off" and "go flick yourself" and not bother buying into the message to conserve energy.

Blame me for climate change

Two things: the finger of blame for climate change could be pointed in my direction and ankles don't necessarily have to be bare naked.    
While environmentalists play Chicken Little's "The Sky is Falling" and governments do the "There Ain't No Flies On Me" dance, I'll take responsibility.
It's my fault we're playing golf in December and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas at Easter. 
To mark my 60th birthday, I did two firsts — I bought an umbrella and got a tattoo.
Let's get the tattoo out of the way first.
Just before noon on Aug. 14, 2005, I was in downtown Stouffville doing some age-appropriate shopping — Robitoxin for an ailing back, denture glue for my uppers and hair colour to cover the gray.
Heading east on Main Street, I came to the town's only tattoo parlor, stopped, peeked in the window and, within six seconds, decided to give myself a birthday present.
I knew what I wanted: a little hummingbird sitting on the outside of my right ankle. An hour later, I was back on Main Street, wish fulfilled.
Family reaction varies: My kids are disgusted, my grandchildren are still laughing and my father's trying to figure out why. Dad's pretty sure that when he dies, I'll attend the funeral wearing an anchor on my right forearm and Mother, circled by a heart, on my left.   
As for me, I like it. When applying muscle-cramping ointment to my legs, I always put a little extra on the hummingbird.
Now back to the weather.
The same day I got my first tattoo, I bought the first umbrella I've ever owned.  It was pretty, upscale and pricey.
Since I'd spend my life thinking umbrellas were anti-Canadian and only used by sucks, this was a turnaround. Still, I figured I owed it to my kids.
When I put the umbrella in back window of my Toyota, I felt proud.  Raised six kids single-handed, worked full-time and then some for more than 30 years, owned a winterized cottage on a lake, complete with a lovely garden and here I was putting an umbrella in the back window of my brand spanking new car.
To top it off, I had a hummingbird sitting on my leg.   
Life is good. Since my ex-husband is a non-sharing multi-millionaire, I can't holler "Eat Your Heart Out", but I can sing, "I Did It My Way."
Back to the weather.
On Monday, following medical tests linked to a hynerated back disc, I was driving west on Major Mackenzie toward Richmond Hill. I was to meet my self-employed daughter for dinner.
The kid and I were celebrating.
My daughter had landed a major business contract, enabling her to keep a pack of wolves away from the door and I had been picked the best journalist of the year from Metroland's 100-plus newspapers. I'd also recently scored a few other kudos, including the award for the best news story in Canada. The kid and I deserved to  eat and pat ourselves and each other on the back.
Seven minutes before pulling into the restaurant parking lot, the rains came, the lightning came and then the winds followed. When I pulled into the parking spot, visibility was nil.
Instead of waiting until the worse of it was over, I decided to tackle the elements. Then it hit me: I could use the umbrella.
While work crews were forced to close roads across York Region and hydro lines were falling like flies, I was soaking wet. Then, the saddest thing happened: the tornado-like winds twisted my pretty new umbrella every which way, killing it instantly.
While reaching the restaurant door, two words came to mind: climate change. And then it struck — we simply didn't get this kind of weather before I got a tattoo and owned an umbrella.
It's my fault, so don't blame the government.    

Monday morning no time to talk politics

What Ontario needs is more politicians.
Before you pull the forks out of your eyes, listen up.
Members of the Citizens' Assembly of Electoral Reform are telling the province to change the way it elects its government by modelling itself after New Zealand and Germany, which use a two-part ballot system.
The new system is called mixed-member proportional representation.
How do you like it so far?
I'll point out there's more sheep in New Zealand than people and Germany has a history of going from one extreme to the next.
Ontario uses the first past the post system. I like it. It sounds like a horse race.
I'd do the big explain but, hey, it's Monday, it's nine below, most of us gained four pounds over the weekend, some of us still have a hangover, too many of us had no sex and the relatives, as usual, stayed too long.
My neighbour up the street can't find her teenage daughter, somebody's dog starting barking at 4 a.m. yesterday and the sound wasn't muffled until another neighbour revved up his chainsaw at 7 a.m.
Back to how we vote.       
Ontario has been though several governments where the winning party receives the majority of seats, but did not get a majority of the votes. When somebody decided this wasn't fair, the citizens' group was struck and many meetings were held. The end result: we're going to have a referendum on the ballot in October's provincial election.
As well, for reasons unknown due to lack of interest, the citizens' group wants the number of MPPs elected in Ontario increased from 107 to 129. 
Between now and the fall, you're going to hear lots about it.
Until then, let's all go back to sleep.
Wake me in the spring.

Justice can be painful

I now know how a sardine feels.
Tuesday and Wednesday were hard days — hard on my back, hard on my neck and hard on my nerves.
To pick six-member juries for 10 civil trials, the good people in the justice business summoned about 350 York Region residents to the Newmarket court.
I reported to jury duty with a smile on my face. It's part of the democratic process.  It's our civil duty. It's the right thing to do.
But I'm here to tell you, going through the jury selection process gives hurry-up-and-wait a whole new meaning.
The first hour on Tuesday was spent in a lineup outside the courthouse; the second hour  in a lineup on the fourth flour and 15 minutes inside a courtroom watching a video on the how-tos and the importance of jury duty.
Educated and pumped, we were released into the lobby, where we stood for another 30 minutes. To kill time, we complained to each other.
I liked this part. It's the Canadian thing to do. 
Finally, we were escorted back into the courtroom eager to see justice in action.
A problem presented itself within seconds.
Somebody forgot to tell whoever was in charge of local justice that putting 350 people in a room that holds about 200 not only raises questions about fire safety laws, but it's a stupid thing to do.
About 60 per cent got to sit down. The rest, me included, got to stand.
With the exception of a 15-minute break, we stood for nearly three hours. I worked out a little routine. A herniated disc in my back makes me favour my right side, so I stood on my good leg for 30 minutes, followed by 10 minutes on my bad leg.
I kept up this routine while the judge went to work. He sorted out those with hearing or  language disabilities, medical problems and financial difficulties.
Lawyers then got into the game. While challenging juror candidates, it appeared as if occupation, appearance, sex, race and age were part of the selection process. All done in secret, who's to know? They rejected nurses, high-level managers, Italians, an old lady, a couple of very young adults and a doctor. They seemed to like teachers and engineers. Everybody who knows me insisted I'd be rejected. 
On thing is certain: chivalry is dead. Men, including young males, didn't offer their seats to the ladies, including the old ladies.
Once again, I was reminded I've been robbed. I figured once I made it to old-lady status, there'd be perks for time served — I wouldn't get pregnant or be sent to war and people would overlooked all mistakes. And, of course, I'd get a seat on the bus.
I have passed the 60 mark and nobody in that courtroom gave a damn.
Actually, I didn't worry too much about the pain in my back.  As a diabetic being deprived of food for an extended period of time, I had something else on which to dwell. Plunging blood sugar could land me on the floor. Then I realized I could faint, but couldn't fall to the floor. There wasn't room.
I soldiered on. During the 12-second break, I pushed my way through the crowd, headed to the cafeteria and chug-a-lugged a bottle of orange juice, sending my blood sugar count up where it belonged. 
The second day showed promise. I made it up to the fourth floor within 20 minutes, only to stand in a lineup for more than an hour. Once inside the courtroom, I hit pay dirt. I got a seat. 
It wasn't long before we hit a snag.
A critical lawyer failed to appear and the judge was not happy. I wasn't too thrilled either. Finally, after God knows how long, the lost lawyer was found, the last jury was picked and we were set free.   
Since the odds of being chosen to serve on a jury during this selection process were about one in 50, I wasn't surprised when my number didn't get called.
Would I do it again?
Yes.

Remembering Uncle Ernie

His name was Ernest Hooper and he was my great uncle.
Ernie's remembered as a kid who hid in the bushes to escape an abusive father. He's also remembered as a soldier killed in action 90 years ago today. 
"Nobody knows what happened to Ernie's body," my father said from the head of the family dinner table on Easter Sunday. 
"The family was told young Ernie was listed among the many dead at Vimy Ridge. His name is likely engraved on a monument in northern France."
Apparently, my grandfather loved his little brother.
"Dad was quite fond of Ernie. All the time I grew up, Dad spoke of him often and a picture of him sat on a table. It was taken just before he shipped out. Ernie was wearing his uniform."
Dad then explained why Ernie wasn't a Ransberry.
"Ernie was a half brother. He and Dad had the same mother but different fathers."
My grandmother's first husband was a Ransberry. He just up and disappeared one day. After a time, Gramma married this Hooper guy. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch. Grampa hated him and Ernie didn't like him either.
Historians may debate the technical significance of Canada's dramatic victory in France nine decades ago. But there's no doubt it's special place in the Canadian psyche.
On Easter Monday 1917, about 30,000 Canadian soldiers, including our Ernie, emerged from the safe shelter of tunnels and trenches and launched their assault on the maze of German trenches, barbed wire and machine gun positions on the famous hill. Four days later, with Vimy hill in Canadian hands, the price of the capture was 3,600 soldiers, including Ernie.
My grandfather never had any use for war.
Nor does my dad.
Nor do I.
Nor do my children.
It's a sentiment we pass from generation to generation.
War never goes away. It's stubborn. And it is forever with us.
While our family remembered Ernie and my mother's brother killed in action in Italy in 1944, six Canadians died in combat in Afghanistan yesterday. There will never be a shortage of war memories.
Like I said, war never goes away.