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letters Matthew in Boston for tests Dear Sir: In June of this year Matthew was diagnosed with a type of tumor. cancer called neuro- blastoma (this condition is only found in children usually under the age of SiX). The symptoms of Matthew's illness began in May when he com- plained of a stomach ache. After trips to the Port Perry Clinic, a stay in the Oshawa Hospital, we ended up being sent to the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto where it was discovered that the tumor had developed around his adrenal gland and was quickly spreading throughout his body. At -the time of diag- nosis his cancer was in stage four and his only hope for a complete cure was a bone marrow transplant. The marrow transplant for neuro- blastoma is a relatively new procedure (2-3 years) which is not performed anywhere in Canada. However, Matthew was accepted at the cancer clinic in Boston, Massachus- ettes, his sister, Jennifer was a compat- ible donor and will be accompanying him. As you read this we will be in Boston, we leave Dec. 17 for one week of consultation hopefully returning on Dec. 21st. The trans- plant itself is scheduled to begin on the 31st of December. Matthew had surgery in Toronto on November 12 for the removal of the tumor, the doctors felt that it was very success- PORT PERRY STAR -- Tues. December 18, 1984 -- § the PORT PEARY STAR CO LIMITED 139 QUEEN STREET #0 80190 PORT PLRAY ONTARIO {08 WO (416) 985.738) (C CNA J. PETER HVIDSTEN Publisher Advertising Manager Member of the J.B. MCCLELLAND Canadian Community Newspaper Association Editor and Ontario Community Newspaper Association Published every Tuesday by the Port Perry Star Co. Ltd . Port Perry, Ontario CATHY ROBB News & Features Authorized as second class mail by the Post Office Department, Ottawa. and for cash payment of postage in cash Second Class Maul Registration Number 0265 Subscription Rate: In Canada $15.00 per year. Elsewhere $45.00 per year. Single copy 35* © COPYRIGHT -- All layout and composition of advertisements produced by the advertising department of the Port Perry Star Company Limited are protected under copyright and may not be reproduced without the written permission of the publishers (Turn to page 6) "hristrnas messag ©, WINNIE-THE-POOH: A PARABLE OF CHRISTMAS by Rev. M. Ansley Tucker Church of Ascension -- Port Perry \ of honey, and having the gall to enjoy it. By now, Pooh is beside himself. He leaps out of bed, and tears to the Very Deep Pit for his, jar of honey. It is disappointingly empty, but never mind, there is some \ : left, and quick as can be, he has got his nose in the jar, polishing off the remains. So much for catching a Heffalump. But that is not all, for Pooh is so eager to get at the very last drop that he gets his head stuck fast in the jar. He can't pull the jar off, and he can't see to climb out of the pit. In short, he is trapped. A.A. Milne might have been surprised to think that.the_huntiog misfortunes of Winnie-the-Pooh should have anything to teach us about our observance of Christmas. But in the midst of a December schedule which calls us to shop here, party there, travel to other places, send cards, decorate, make gifts, and turn our kitchen into bakeries, | suggest that a story about confused priorities is apt indeed. We become so entangled in the demands of the season that we lose track of the fundamental Reason for our festivity. Like Pooh, we become so preoccupied with the honey that we forget the Heffalump. Ultimately, Pooh's consuming concern for his honey trapped him to the extent that he was completely blind to anything else. Christmas is the feast of God-with-us,; it is the gift of God himself wrapped in the innocence and helplessness of an infant. This Jesus is the Incarnate Word of wonder, counsel, might, timelessness, and peace which God speaks to us in the midst of all that would make us blind to him. This is the Event that makes sense of our frenetic merrymaking. May, we in 1984, not lose the Feast to the festivities. "Piglet," said Winnie-the-Pooh, *'| have decided something. | have decided to catch a Heffalump." You will perhaps remember that after much reflection and chin-stroking, Pooh Bear and Piglet decide that in order to catch a Heffalump, one must certainly set a Cunning Trap. And that the best sort of Cunning Trap is a Very Deep Pit. And that at the bottom of the Very Deep Pit, there probably ought to be some of Pooh's very own Honey. And so, Piglet scurries off to dig the Pit, while Pooh goes to * retrieve a pot of honey. The project is obviously of great importance, . else Pooh would not dream of giving up any of his horde of honey. As anyone will tell you, bears, and especilly Edward Bear, are very fond of honey. Indeed, Pooh likes it so much, that he decides he had better just check and be sure it doesn't have any cheese init. After all, he reasons to himself, it simply would not do to put fake bait at the bottom of a Cunning Trap. But luckily, the pot does contain honey, through and through ---- almost to the very bottom of it, if the truth be known! Suddenly, though, Pooh remembers the Heffalump, and reluctantly stumps off to find Piglet. Piglet takes the rest of the honey and puts it in the Pit, and the two head home to wait for morning. Poor Pooh, though, has a restless night. Mostly he is hungry. But of course, when he goes to fetch some honey, the cupboard is bare. At first he cannot quite remember where his honey might be, but then, 'Oh yes, the Heffalump." "Bother,"" says Pooh, and he goes back to bed. But he can't sleep. He tries counting sheep, but that doesn't help. Then he tries counting Heffalumps, but that is even worse, because every single Heffalump is making straight for his pot bill smiley oS A PERFECT CHRISTMAS Wouldn't it be fun to have the power of Santa Claus just for a day and give everyone the gifts they really, truly wanted, regardless of cost, instead of the junk they get? What would you do if you had such a power thrust upon you suddenly? Would you heap your favorite peo- ple with mink coats, Cadillacs, automatic dishwashers, new $90,000 homes? If you did, of course, the magic power wouldn't last, and on Christmas morning, all the fabulous presents would vanish, just after they'd been unwrapped. And you'd be as popular as a socialist in the Senate. Because, you see, those aren't the things that peo- ple really, truly want. And the Santa Claus magic would work only for really, truly gifts, not just the things peo- ple want for the sake of vanity or prestige or comfort. I know some of the presents I'd hand out. To childless couples, who wanted children terribly, I'd give, on Christmas morning, not one, but four of the fattest, prettiest, pinkest, © ~'test babies you ever saw. Two boys and two girls. And to even things out, I'd throw in a large bottle of tranquilizers and a pair of strait jackets. To all children, I'd grant a set of parents who would answer all questions patiently, read stories every night at bedtime, go sliding on the hill with them, not make them eat anything they didn't like, hug and kis them when they were hurt, and whale the tar out of them when they needed it. On Christmas morning, 1'd present to all old peo- ple a three-month reprieve from all their aches, pains and ailments. I'd give them a good appetite and a rare fine set of new choppers to go with it. I'd give them love and kisses in large measure from a veritable host of grandchildren. And I'd throw in a round-trip ticket to Miami, paid-in-advance reservations at a posh hotel there, and a sizeable cheque to let them play the races, get married again, or do whatever else they wanted to do. To all clergymen, whatever the colour of their cloth, I'd give a spkcial present. They'd get a church packed to the doors' with people who sang lustily, listened at- tentively, prayed humbly, gave bounteously and con- tinued to do these unusual things throughout the follow- ing year. All mothers of large families would get something they really, truly wanted for Christmas. I'd give them families who appreciated all the work they did, prais- ed their cooking, told them once in a while that they look- ed pretty, wiped their feet when they came in, did the dishes frequently, and paid attention to them on occa- sions other than Mother's Day. And I'd throw in the ser- vices of a cracking good housekeeper, and pay her salary for a year. On Christmas Eve, I'd give all merchants a cash register stuffed with money, and, at the same time, an irresistible urge to go out and spend the bundle on retarded children, or unwed mothers, or somebody. What would I leave under the Christmas tree for the farmer? You it. I'd grant them a whole year of exactly the kind of weather they wanted, regardless of the comfort or convenience of the rest of us. Of course, 1'd have to find them something else to bellyache about, re but they could probably fall back on the complaint that those tremendous crops were taking a lot out of the land. All amateur golfers would be donated one season in which they sliced not, nor did they hook, but banged everyone down the centre. All anglers would be given one year in which they were as smart as the fish. All weekly editors would be given one week in which there were no mistakes in the paper. All teachers would be given a free 10 days in a sanitorium at Christmas. All wives would be given one year's absence from the boring, insensitive, callous, inattentive cretins they are married to. And all husbands would receive a similar parole from the nagging, complaining, spend- thrift, over-bearing harridans they married. Serve them both right. There, 1 don't think I've left anybody out. But if I have, just drop me a line at the South Pole. I'm sort of a left-handed, or South Pole Santa Claus.