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Section Two The Canadian Statesman, Bowmanville, December 21,1983 3 Editorial Comment Christmas Is for Kids! As this is being written, the annual Christmas scramble is just about over, except for the climax that will occur on Sunday when the presents will be opened, the turkey and dressing consumed from groaning tables. And the piles of dishes will be washed, with the good silver and china carefully dried and put away until the next big celebration. There will be happiness and grief on that day here and elsewhere as dreams and wishes are met or denied. But memories will play a E art too because many families will e incomplete because of deaths that have occurred since last Christmas. Fortunately, in Canada, most of those deaths though shocking, will have occurred from natural causes, but in Britain, Lebanon and other places in the world, recent deaths will have been sudden and terrifying from bombs or bullets that we here know little about. Once again the Salvation Army and other agencies will have made certain that every family will at least be able to celebrate Christmas with a good meal and some gifts for the children to make them realize that it is a special event of considerable importance. This Sunday our churches will be filled to overflowing as families take an hour or so to refresh themselves on the real meaning of Christmas. And ministers will once again tell the story of the Babe in the Manger, the three Wise Men that started it all. Somehow, many seem to have forgotten most of the details, we've been so busy rushing around, trying to locate Cabbage Patch dolls or other trinkets that a few weeks from now will be meaningless. Or we've been overwhelmed as merchants trying to cash in on the current buying spree so we'll have enough in bank accounts to pay our employees and have some left over for our selves and the governments. Yes, it's quite a time of year for almost everyone, but it's been our good fortune in recent weeks to have taken in more school Christmas concerts than most people all over this area. We've seen and hotographed so many different anta Clauses that one of our reporters commented that he is now on a first name basis with the chubby old chap. You've seen the results of those visits on these pages, the youngsters beaming as they performed or cuddled up to Santa on his knee. That's why we reiterate that Christmas is for kids to enjoy to the fullest. The rest of us are too mixed up with other thoughts or concerns to really appreciate it to the maximum. Play It Safe Studies reveal that up to half the fatal accidents in Canada involved a driver who had been drinking. With the Christmas-New Years season upon us, we would again urge our readers to think about the chilling statistics BEFORE they get behind the wheels of their cars. By all means, enjoy the Festive times, but if you plan to indulge a little, leave the driving to somebody else, the consequence could be tragic. None for the road is always the best policy. Think about it and have a safe holiday. Port Perry Star Byline... By Peter Parrott I have not yet reached the age where I can expound expound the meaning of Christmas. But at least this year I have cornered cornered a small part of the Christmas mystery. You see, I have solved the puzzle of the Christmas Christmas tree. For it occurred to me that the problem with most Yuletide spruce and pines is this: they are too darned big. In other words, if architects architects had meant us to have trees in our living living rooms, then the floors of our houses would contain six inches inches of loam and a layer of pine needles. Trees belong in the forest. So, unless you're a close relative of Paul Bunyan, there's no need put up a tree big enough to saw into two- by-fours on Boxing Day. This Christmas, I discovered discovered the compact tree. And what a welcome welcome discovery it is. For one thing, our tiny, perfect, four-foot tree fit sideways in the luggage luggage compartment of a Chevette. That solves one of the Christmas tree problems right there. I didn't have to wres tle it into a stand. There are no hernias when you try to lift a compact tree and no stings from pine or spruce needles. The compact tree can be assembled in about 20 minutes and it uses far fewer ornaments then the big decoration-guzzlers decoration-guzzlers which can swallow up a whole string of lights before you can say Saint Nicholas. Ours looks great with a minimum of tinsel, ornaments, and lights. Another advantage to the small tree is its perfection. perfection. I suspect that small trees which haven't stood as long in the forest are less susceptible susceptible to damages from woodpeckers, lightning strikes, and other flaws. Such faults often leave the owner of the large tree judiciously judiciously arranging his evergreen in such a way that these blemishes go unnoticed. If you opt for a compact compact Christmas tree, you should be prepared for some ridicule, at first. Your friends may joke about your discovery, discovery, and say: "I see you've bought a Christmas Christmas twig." But it's best to ignore these comments comments from individuals who are only jealous that they hadn't thought of your idea sooner. Mind you, if you happen happen to be decorating the great hall of a castle or the nave of a church, you may still be interested interested in the massive > Yuletide evergreen. Or, perhaps, you have uncommonly uncommonly good luck with your full-sized tree. That's fine. For my money, any real tree is better than an artificial one and an •1 artificial tree is better than no tree at all. But I do not wish to spoil the Festive Season Season by digging up the old debate over natural and artificial trees. I know for a fact that the best tree of all is your own tree, be it tall, short, artificial, plastic, or ceramic. The best tree is the one that stands in your home, decorated by lights, ornaments, ornaments, and good cheer. And so, from our house to yours, here's wishing you the compliments compliments ofthe season and hoping that the happiness happiness of this Christmas follows you throughout the year. (Eanabmn Statesman Durham County's Greet Family Journal Established 129 years ago In 1854. Also Incorporating The BowmanvIlleNewi The Newcastle Independent The Orono News Second class mall registration number 1581 Produced every Wednesday by THE JAMES PUBLISHING COMPANY LIMITED 82-88 King SI. W., Bowmanvllle, Ontario L1C 3K9 JOHN M. JAMES RICHARD A. JAMES Editor - Publisher Assistant Publisher GEO. P. MORRIS BRIAN PURDY DONALD BISHOP Business Mgr. Advertising Mgr. Plant Mgr. All layout! and compoalllon ol adverllaemenls produced by Ihe employees ol The Canadian Statesman, The Newcastle Independent and The Janies Publishing Company Limited are protected by copyright and must not be reproduced without written permission of Ihe publishers, *15.00 a year - 6 monlhe le.OO foreign - 145.00 a year strictly In advance Although every precaution will be taken to avoid error, The Canadian Statesman accepts advertising In Its columns on Ihe understanding that II will not be liable lor any error In Ihe advertisement published hereunder unless a proof ol such advertisement Is requested In writing by Ihe advertiser and returned lu The Canadian Statesman business olllce duly signed by the advertiser and with such error or corrections plainly noted In writing thereon, and In that case It any error so noted Is not corrected by The Canadian Statesman Its liability shall not exceed such a portion of the entire cost ol such advertisement as Ihe space occupied by Ihe noted error bears to Ihe whole space occupied by such advertlsernenl. 623-3303 Our Wish for the Christmas Season is Peace and Goodwill to everyone. That is the spirit and the meaning of Christmas which celebrates the birth of the Prince of Peace. Have a Happy and Holy Holiday. the Management, Staff and Correspondents of From MA MmÉ&kiÉ SUGAR and SPICE The Long Nights "MORNING, dear" "Hi sweetie. Did you get some sleep?" Insomnia was the big bane of an otherwise healthy life. "Hardly any. I was sick all night with a cold. Let's make the bed. You have to get away early today." It was Professional Development Day for teachers and I had 30 miles to drive. We began the bed-making. She gasped, and said, "Im sick" and fell to her knees. I tried to lift her onto the bed, but couldn't, with only one arm useful. "I'll get you a glass of water," and I headed for the bathroom. I heard a heavy thud, rushed back' to the bedroom, and she was lying on her back, bleeding from a cut on her head, where she'd struck the sharp corner of a chest of drawers. "Did I fall? Why did I fall?" I was alarmed, but not panicky. I got a cold compress and tried to staunch the bleeding. "Stop putting your fingers in your cut it only makes it worse." She rolled over onto her face and said, "Don't leave me. Don't leave me." By this time I was panicky and spent 10 minutes trying to get our doctor through an answering service, then through the hospital. I thought she was just knocked out by the blow on the head. Stupid people kept asking how old she was, and whether she was breathing. I tried to find a pulse and held a mirror in front of her mouth, but my hands were shaking so much I couldn't tell anything. I finally phoned an ambulance. The young men did everything they could, then took her to the hospital, still in her dressing-gown. I can't believe the insensitivity of hospital administration. While the medical staff was trying to save my wife, I was told I must sit down and answer a lot of ridiculous questions: address, her age, telephone number, insurance number, all that garbage. Not a single personal note. I almost told the clerk to stuff it. Our doctor appeared, a nurse took me gently by the shoulder, and I groaned, "Don't tell me. Don't." He did. I hadn't left her. She'd left me. I've always thought I was pretty tough. I shed a few leaky tears when my mother and father and brother died. During the war, I had a buddy one day and an empty bed the next. But this time I cried like a baby, despite efforts to pull myself together. Every time someone said a kind word, my face would crumple and 1 couldn't speak. Could barely get a word out. The rest of that day is a blur. I took a last look at my sweetheart, my Old Battlcaxc, my constant support, my favorite bickering companion, the oft-upset mother of our children, the scolder and spoiler of our grandboys. I kissed her, touched her cheek, and wept. And wept. Took a taxi home. No jacket, just a shirt. It wasn't home. I vaguely remember people, old friends, coming in. Jeanne Sauve held my hand and stroked my head and didn't say anything foolish. Perrie Rintoul put his arm around my shoulders, insisted I eat, and made soup and peeled a banana. I had to laugh, amid my sobs, at the banana. Typical man. One of the worst ordeals was calling the kids and my wife's dear and close sister. I'd get to the phone, blurt the news as quickly as I could, then choke up completely. I've always admired people who could cope with grief, without a lot of hysterics and sentimental nonsense. I couldn't. The next few days were spent in limbo or some such territory. I was useless. Everyone else pitched in, neighbors and friends brought vast quantities of food. My big sister arrived and took over, and kept things on an even keel, washing dishes until her hands were shrivelled, ironing shirts, putting things away until 1 still can't find anything. I did manage to hold up pretty well • at the funeral home. The' only problem was that all the men patted me heavily on my broken shoulder, and all the women hugged me, further increasing the agony of that wing. My brother-in-law delivered one of the finest, most honest eulogies I've ever heard. Phone calls came from all over North and Central America. Donations flooded in to a scholarship in my wife's name for piano students. Readers of my column who don't know me, nor I them, wrote consoling letters. My son, Hugh, came up two weekends in a row from the city, just to keep me company, and did, in his good-hearted, ham-fisted way. He carefully put away in the tool-shed my old lawnmower, which had been left out to go to the dump. He shovelled the sidewalk for the first time in 18 years, And my grandboys were great. They knew what it was all about. They knew their beloved Gran was gone. They stayed out of. the way, didn't fight once, and only showed their feelings by taking my hand, or curling a little arm around my neck. Broken shoulder in September. Broken heart in November. But don't worry. Shoulders heal. Hearts are just pumps, I'll survive. But it's lonely in the big, brick house. The days arc very long. And the nights arc longer.