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6 -- PORT PERRY STAR -- Wednesday, December 28, 1988 Editorial SAY IT FAST $485 million. Quick now. Say it fast. That wasn't so bad. Or was it? Saying it fast or slow, $485 million is a lot money. Put another way, it's nearly half a billion. But $485 million is what officials at Durham Region figure the Region will need over the next ten years (1989-98) to finance the sewer and water projects and new roads to keep pace with what are expected to be continued strong growth trends. OK, we all know that Durham Region has grown in leaps and bounds over the last decade, and future growth over the next ten years is necessary, to be sure. Nobody would want to see Durham stagnate. But at what price? $485 million in ten years to put in new roads, imrpove water and sewer plants and build new ones, just to keep pace with anticipated growth? ~ That's what a Regional report tabled last week states. It should be made very clear that the report is just a forecast; an "information document." It is not Regional policy and in no way commits the Regional council to adopt it as policy. And we would suggest that the ramifications be seri- ously explored. For what is expecially troubling about this report is the fact that Durham doesn't have the financial resources to pay for these new services without issuing debentures. Some $84 million in debentures over the next decade. Servicing this debenture debt will be a burden on the existing rate-payers in the Region. And what's more, water and sewer rates will have to increase 5-10 per cent annually to add more to the pot. Should existing tax-payers and those paying water and sewer rates be hit with more costs just to facilitate more and more subdivisions? We suggest not. Besides, that would be just part of the cost to the tax-payers. If the growth trends continue over the next decade as they have the past ten years, what about all the new schools that will be needed, larger police forces, fire depart- ments, recreation facilities, roads that are under the juris- diction of local council? It all comes from the same pock- et, in the long run. If Durham Region is predicting $84 million in deben- tures just for Regional roads, sewer-water systems over the next decade, one must assume that the costs for oth- er municipal services will be high as well. | : Sure, we like to see growth and prosperity, but can we afford it? Can we continue to heap more and more on the existing property tax payers? The report, couched as it is in the language of the bureaucrat is chilling. If this is the price of future growth, we stron ly sug- gest that Regional politicians take another hard look at where we are going. Most tax-payers simply won't be able to afford such prosperity. a PO TF TBS EMO AS 0 50 ry os. R / pony care QYMO you are "-- THE TRADE DEAL DOESN'y KICK-IV THL THE NEW YEAR, 50 THERE'S DUTY OWING ON YOUR JOLLY Li7TLE ALFS | (.] JoES, AN CALIFORNIA BARBIES / Chatterbox by CATHY OLLIFFE Port Perry {» CNA a f A -, co | ; of} a | 235 QUEEN STREET - PORT PERRY, ONTARIO Phone 985-7383 P.0.Box90 LOB 1NO J. PETER HVIDSTEN Member of the Publisher Canadian Community Newspaper Association Advertising Manager and Ontario Community Newspaper Association. Published every Tuesday by the . Port Perry Star Co. Ltd., Port Perry, Ontario. J.B. McCLELLAND Editor i Authorized as second class mail by the Post Office Department, Ottawa, and for cash CATHY OLLIFFE payment of postage in cash. News & Features Second Class Mail Registration Number 0265 AMADIAN COMMU 5, on Subscription Rate: In Canada $20.00 per year. D240 00s ays0litd Elsewhere $60.00 per year. Single Copy 50° © COPYRIGHT -- All layout and composition of advertisements produced by the adver- tising department of the Port Perry Star Company Limited are protected under copyright and may not be reproduced without the written permission of the publisher. REMEMBERING Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, Christmas was different. Until the year | turned 10, we lived in a ram- bling old red-bricked house in Midland, with an old-fashioned wood stove in the kitchen that Mom actually cooked on, and | had to shine each day with waxed paper. On a large corner lot dotted with the stately elegance of 60 year old pines, 218 Seventh Street is where Christmas began for me. In December, my mother was fastidious in her cleaning, waxing and polishing the hard- wood floors (that was forever giving us slivers) and the curvacious oak staircase leading to the second floor. The parlour, with its lead-paned windows staring blankly at the street, didn't require a great deal of cleaning, because we kids were ardly ever allowed inside--only to practise pi- ano. But at Christmas, the French doors to the parlour were opened to allow the entry of a Christmas tree. We were allowed inside to decorate the tree, of course, but once it was up, the parlour was again off limits until Christ- mas moming (or unless we had company). On Christmas Eve, after listening to CKVR's Santa Claus spoils (Hey Billy, he's flying over Barrie now!"), my brother and | stole one last hopeful, wistful glance at the tree through the parlour doors, before climbing into bed. Not that we could sleep. We couldn't. We'd lie wide awake in our own bedrooms, prayin Santa Claus would bring us a new Tonka tru (in Billy's case) and a couple of Nancy Drew books (in mine). Our ears were as sensitive as radar anten- nae, picking up every sound and interpreting it as being tiny hooves on the rooftop. Did'ja hear that? Was it him? Huh? We'd get so ex- cited, that our stomachs would churn, and it was a rare Christmas Eve indeed that didn't find both of us bent over the toilet, sick as dogs (later, when my sister was born, she ac- quired the same malady, Santa Flu). Christmas Eve was always the absolute longest night of the year, an eternity of rest- less anxiety we thought would never end. And just when we thought we'd never fall asleep, we did--and abruptly woke up again before 6 a.m., clamouring into Mom and Dad's bed, begging them to come downstairs. When my sleepy parents finally did consent to being dragged down to the parlour (with a brief pit stop for Mom in her curlers to make coffee, and for Dad to grab his movie camera-- the kind with the blinding lights and the funny whirring noise), Billy and | were flabberghast- ed with the amazing transformation under the CHRISTMAS Christmas tree. Yes, Santa had arrived. The floor was covered with boxes and packages, all with tiny attached cards reading "To Cathy, Love Santa." Our stockings, hung with such hope the night before, were brimming with small presents, chocolate and large oranges (which we never, ever ate--they always went straight to the fridge. Who wants to eat healthy when you're seven years old and there's chocolate around?). Time passed quickly Christmas morning. Mom would giggle and coyly try to hide the curlers on her head, Billy and | would dance madly around the parlour showing off our new toys, while Dad happily shot yards of home movie footage. Before we knew it, us kids were marched into the bathtub for scrubbing and then dress- ing in our Christmas best. That done, we all piled in Dad's two tone lime green Chevy, to take the long trip to Gramma and Grampa's in Buttonville. : That was where the whole clan--Gramma, Grampa, their five children, and 25 grandchil- dren gathered every Christmas Day for years. While the men sat in the living room and argued politics, and while the women pre- pared a gargantuan feast, all 25 kids tore around the huge old Buttonville farmhouse, yelling and fighting and laughing and drawing "Ke more than one ep it down" from each set of parents. From bumping down the waxed staircase on our behinds, to putting sticky fingerprints all over Gramma's glass doors, to searching for ghosts in the attic, we found plenty of trouble to get into. Our favourite game was approach- ing the old wolfskin hanging in Grampa's den, and bravely daring each other to stick our fin. gers into the snarling muzzle full of fangs. Just when the noise level became too un- bearable for the adults, dinner (an exercise in organization) was called. All the kids sat in the kitchen, around a mammoth table, while the parents enjoyed a much quieter meal in the dining room. And what a feast it was, turkey and ham with more trimmings than a person has need of. After dishes were done, presents were exchanged, and at the end of the day, | found myself tucked in a very large bed in one of Gramma's spare rooms, with a reading light and a new Nancy Drew book. How extremely satisfying and warm thoge Christmas Days were. Everything has changed since then, but | still have the memories, | still have my Na Drew collection, and | still feel like I'm seven years old on Christmas Eve.