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editorial poge Safety On Buses In about two weeks time, a couple of thousand students in Scugog Township will be heading back to school for another year at the books. Many of them will be travelling to and from school each day on the familiar orange and black school buses. The responsibility for their safety rests not only with the bus operators, but also with everyone of us who operates a car or truck on the roads and highways. According to a recent federal government report, there are more than 36,000 school buses in Canada that drive an average 55 miles daily for about 185 school days per year. That adds up to some 366,300,000 miles. With that much distance travelled, the 2,150 accidents does not seem such a large number, but we must keep in mind that many of these accidents involved Canada's most precious resource: our children. The same report estimates that 1,300 injuries resulted, and 17 fatalities. About 600 pupils were injured inside school buses, and 430 of the injured were occupants of other vehicles in collision with school buses. An estimated 150 were schoal bus drivers, and the remainder were pedestrians injured by school buses or by other vehicles while crossing the road to or from a school bus. The Canada Safety Council hopes to reduce these accidents and injuries. To do so will require the co-operation of school authorities, school bus operators, school children themselves, parents, many other organizations from teacher federations to home and school associations, and especially, every driver on Canadian roads. Many drivers have seen vehicles disregard the flashing lights on a school bus, and go speeding past the stopped bus placing students' lives in jeopardy. There is simply no excuse: those generally heard, such as 'didn't see it", "thought it was leaving', or ""couldn't see anyone on the road" really translate into the fact that the vehicle was travelling too fast, the driver was impaired, inattentive, or exhibiting a callous carelessness. But it only takes one inebriated, thoughtless, or careless driver. Why Not The Strap Reprinted from the Trentonian. How does one deal effectively with vandals? First of all, it is obvious that the present law does not. Whenever special efforts are being made for improvements, it seems that right behind the builders come the destroyers. It is simple enough to say that if vandals are caught, they should be made to rebuild what they destroy. That would be find if they could, both as to materials, cost and ability. But how many could, or would? In all of this the one ingredient that seems to be missing is some ind of penalty which might have an effect on making vandals think twice. It ought to be public enough that there would be no chance of hiding it under some rug of secrecy. Jailing seems not to have any effect, and in any case, often hardens those who keep on offending against the law. One old-fashioned remedy which this province used to use is whipping. The strap is something which cannot be hidden. It is the one thing most likely to deter the senseless destroyers. They cannot be hidden under some excuse of being "sick" because many of them are Gite intelligent, and know perfectly well what they are doing. It may sound like a drastic remedy, but punishment of some kind is warranted and corporal punishment, which most of them should have had when (Turnto page 7) FRANKLY, I'D BE MORE WMPRESSED \F HI NAME WERE INFLATION !' * bill smiley Canadian intelligence. Notice I spelled the "their second name was. BROTHERS BECKON Have to go and see my kid brother this week. Idon't have to. Nobody in his right mind has to have anything to do with his relatives. Co From birth todeath they are a pain in the arm. When a baby is born, all the eyebrows go up at the choice of name, unless it happens to be one of theirs, or that of a rich uncle. Asked my grandboys the other day what Balind, who sometimes doesn't know his anus from his elbow, promptly retorted "William." His second name was the same as mine, in case I'd be pleased an leave him something. Asked the other guy, who knows every- thing from why Gran's crying to why Grandad is in a tearing rage. . He muttered, "Chen". I'd forgotten. His parents named him that, don't ask my why, because they were on an international kick, and Chen means "first born". Poor little devil. His full name is Nikov.Chen. Imagine what the CIA will do with that when they take over last word without a capital. Next time the relatives act like Little Jack Horner is when your kids get married. Despite the fact that the couple has been living together for nine months, your blasted relatives want a church wedding, wi with the bride in white, a big reception where everybody pretends that the newlyweds are virgin, there are some adolescent speeches right out of the age of Victoria, and somebody cuts a cake that nobody would eat with a 10-foot pole. This costs roughly five to ten thousand dollars so that the couple can. go on living in sin, but with a paper to prove that they're not. And the third occasion on which the relatives get their arms into it, right up to the elbows, is when somebody dies. This is when the real Christians emerge. "Mom always said I could have that tea service." "Well, that's what you think. I was here the day she died and she distinctly stated (arm twisted behind her back) that I could have not only the tea service but all the linen." And so on. I've seen all this, but not experienced it. After my 'mother's death, my elder sister was mutually appointed arbitrator. And she arbitrated: 'Two sheets for you, two for you. Two blankets for you, two for you. Two linen tablecloths for you, two for you. Two beds for you, a dining room table for you. Everyday china for you, plus the silver coffee pot. Good china for you, plus the chamber-pot." And so on. It was like being at an auction, without any bids, and we all went away rather dazed, enriched beyond our dreams, and with only a few grudges. We were all so young and unsophisticated that we let an aunt have a beautiful chaise lounge, which wound up as a period piece in, of all places, Australia. My aunt didn't want it. This hasn't much to do with going to see my kid brother, but I still think that he thinks he got screwed (he was in Paris at the time) on the family split-up, and covets the hand-carved stool my Dad made, which I traded off for an upright piano of dubious vintage. Maybe not. Maybe he just wants to see me. Maybe he wants to apologize for all the times he trailed me all over town when I was seven and he was five. I would first hiss at him, then shotit at him, to go home. He'd hang on, a block behind, crying like a fire siren, stubborn as a hound following a fox. He's challenged me to a game of golf. This is quite understandable. It fits the pattern. I could always beat him at everything, and he wants the masochist satisfaction of being trounced once more, before he retires to that wonderland of golf where everybody takes a Mulligan, every- body rides an electric cart to the next hole, . and everybody discusses every shot at the 19th hole. On the other hand, maybe he wants to talk about all that money I borrowed from him when he had a paper route and I was a - well, a sort of freelancer. Every Saturday night, I used to lock him in the bathroom and freelance about two- thirds of his weekly take, so I could go to the movies. Saw him in Germany a few years ago, and he was still keeping track. He figures I owe him 28 thousand, 500 and some dollars, with compound interest. Perhaps he just wants to remind me of all the girls he has taken away from me, over the years. He never took anyone of any real consequence, but he took some very fine prospectives. On the fourth hand, maybe he just wants to rub it in to me that I'm a failure. He retired as a Colonel with a chestful of medals. I quit as a Flight-Loot with four or five medals mouldering in the basement. He has been at the beck and call of generals, ambassadors, and such. He is divorced - fashionablg. I am married - unfashionable. He is charming, multilin- gual, has tasted the flesh-pots of Europe. I am a typical suburban slob. Or maybe the poor little fella just wants to see the brother he used to pillow fight with, every Saturday morning.