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2 The Canadian Statesman, Bowmanville, December 19, 1979 Section Two Was Election One Big Error? The defeat of the PC government last Thursday night looked as though it was a well-planned strategical move by the Liberals to catch the PCs off guard and toss them out of office and into an election to be fought over a tough budget. We could visualize the fine hand of Pierre Trudeau and Alan McEachern lulling the government into a false sense of security, certain the Liberals would keep some of their members out of the house at the last minute to make the vote close, but not enough to oust the PCs. After all, what party would be foolish enough to precipitate an election when their leader had officially announced his retirement? We held that view until about Monday when it became clear that Trudeau was not really playing the reluctant participant, he was having problems making up his mind whether or not he wanted to get into the fray again. It may be that he wanted to assess just how much opposition or support there was for him personally in the country. After all there was plenty of it against him This column is devoted to the unsung hero of the festive season. I am referring, of course, to the turkey. The turkey is not a particularly clever bird, nor is it any creature of beauty. In fact, the turkey looks like a bird which was put together in a hurry by a committee which couldn't reach any conclusion before their government grant ran out. Nevertheless, Christmas would not be Christmas without this bird. And I think it's time that the turkey's contribution to the festive season was finally realized. Did you know, for example, that in 1975 there were 10 million of these birds eaten by Canadians. This figure doesn't say how many were consumed at Christmas tables. But you can bet your wings and drumsticks that many of them were devoured at Christmas and New Year's. It is unfortunate that in spite of this kind of annual sacrifice by the turkey population, the poor bird is never honored in the Christmas tradition. Around this time of the year, we hear the Christmas song about the partridge in the pear tree, but never about the turkey in the General Electric self-cleaning oven. The old Christmas song mentions five French hens, two turtledoves, three calling birds, in spite of the fact that all of these obscure creatures have little to do with Canadian Christmases. But, if we want to see the bird that really stole Christmas, we'll have to look at the goose. It seems to me as though the goose has firmly nested smack in the middle of the Christmas tradition. There's a song that says "Christmas is a-coming the the geese are getting fat." And you may recall that when Ebenezer Scrooge decided to mend his ways and buy Bob Cratchet a present, he bought a goose, not a turkey. Maybe geese had an important role to play in Christmas celebrations long ago. But, I know of few persons who will be cooking a festive goose this year and many who will be enjoying turkeys. To me, the goose has a place in the in May and why risk your family and your political future if it was still fairly prevalent? By the time this appears, he is expected to have announced his decision, but in the meantime, Joe Clark has already launched his campaign, giving the appearance that the PCs were well prepared in case they were defeated. The Liberals, on the other hand, still are floundering which could be costly for them later on. Now, we've come to the conclusion that the government's defeat was an accident, rather than a planned operation, and all parties in the House of Commons must bear a measure of responsibility for it happening. It does give Trudeau a last opportunity to regain power, it also provides the NDP with an excellent opportunity to make gains and it gives the electors a chance to hand the Progressive Conservatives a majority or return them to the opposition benches. At this point, Trudeau is the key figure in the unfolding drama. We should know soon what he plans to do. Christmas season that it doesn't really deserve. Around Christmas time, it seems as though the goose gets the glory and the turkey gets the axe. The reason why the turkey does not roost alongside the turtle doves, partridges and French hens is easy to see. All of the birds I have mentioned above are exotic and have an aura of romance around them. But alas, the poor turkey is too common to be celebrated in literature and song. Perhaps the only time when this bird could be described as a creature of beauty is when it is a newly-hatched, fluffy chick. The chicks hatch in 29 days, sometimes in incubators that contain 2,500 or more of their brothers and sisters. From the incubators, the young birds are moved to barns where, our research indicates, they spend the rest of their lives in tightly paced pens in an environment that is almost constantly lighted and carefully heated since the birds are sensitive to changes in temperature. It is estimated that in just 14 weeks, 1,000 turkey broilers can gobble up 11,671.8 kilograms (about 12 tons) of food. And after just 14 weeks, a turkey's brief career is almost over. I never realized it before, but the birds are slaughtered at 14 to 18 weeks of age, and end their careers on a kitchen table, smothered in cranberry sauce. I said earlier in this column that turkeys are stupid. One example of their stupidity is the fact that some of them are de-beaked between their 10th and 28th day to avoid "cannibalism". It seems as though this operation has to be done to stop the birds from pecking each other to death. (And that's a fate far worse than the kitchen table). The birds have also been known to suffocate each other by crowding together in a packed pen. At times, when ill, they will refuse to eat. In spite of its shortcomings, let's not ignore the Christmas turkey. Sure it is stupid, homely, and very common bird. But no matter how you slice it, Christmas without turkey is the Santa without his ho ho ho. Blesstngs We hope the holidays bring you Peace and Happiness as we enjoy this most holy of seasons. We offer you all of our wishes for the Christmas Season and for always. From the Management, Staff and Correspondents of e gaabiu tatesana and El ewNeu ttl 31ubepenbent SUGAR and SPICE Phone Family Isn't it strange, in modern times, how families can grow apart and be little more than well-acquainted strangers when they do meet, with nothing more in common, nothing more to talk about, after the family gossip has been exchanged, than their physical problems; partial plates, bursitis, high blood pressure, piles? These are the very people who slept two or three to a bed when they were growing up, fought bitterly, had the same parents, endured the same ups and downs of the family fortune. Weird. In most of Canada today, the old family unit has pretty well disintegrated. Those of us who were brought up with grandparents, legions of aunts and uncles, too many sisters (or brothers), and dozens of cousins, are scattered into thousands of tiny, one-cell units, with little or no connection with the other old familiar cells except for the occasional phone call or Christmas card. I find this a little sad, but it doesn't really destroy me. The times they are a-changin'. Our once-warm, once-large, once-close families broke into fragments and we just had to accept it, as we did the pill, deodorant and ring-around-the- collar commercials, women's lib, and other great steps forward by mankind. That's what I thought. In fact, I didn't mind it that much. Families can be a pain in the arm. An older sister who still thinks you are 12 years old and need straightening out. A younger brother who doesn't realize that under those dull gray socks of yours is another dull gray - clay. That's the way I thought. But once in a while, for some reason, or no reason, the whole fam damily comes roaring out of the woodwork, all at once, and your phone is so hot the wires are melting, while Ma Bell sits back with a satiated leer, almost post-coital, and you take out a third mortgage on the house to pay your telephone bill. Families don't write any more. They telephone. With the state of our mail service, it's no wonder. You could send two Christmas cards in a row to Uncle Ed, before you got the letter from Aunt Agnes, mailed 13 months before, telling you that he was either dead, or had run off with a strip tease artist. That's what happened to us recently. My kid brother had been taken suddenly and rather violently ill. We had a couple of $34 conversations from his hospital room in Montreal. He was to let me know of any change. Total silence. After a month of this, I phoned my older sister, and asked whether he were dead. She hadn't a clue. Said he'd just vanished. Fair enough. I wasn't going to phone. Then my daughter began phoning from Moosonee, telling my wife about her troubles with beating off the bachelors, and telling me innocuous stuff like she was going to buy a snow-mobile, and would we take the kids while she attended a weekend conference, and asking me how to cope with students who threatened to shoot the principal if she kicked them out of class. Each of these calls was returned, almost nightly, by my wife, who had thought up more piercing questions and answers in the intervening 24 hours. And I had to talk to the grandboys, find out what they wanted for Christmas, who had won the latest fight, and such-like. Then came a call from my son, collect, as usual, who said he was in Florida, on the way home from South America. When he'd arrive he didn't know. Grind, grind. Teeth. Then a close relative jumped through the window of a fifth-floor apartment and was pronounced D.O.A. at the hospital. This spewed a frenzied round of long-distance calls to police, relatives, her son and so on. It also elicited similar calls on the in-line for us. Just got over this, intermingled with frequent calls to great- grandad, telling him we'd be over any weekend now, a call from a brother-in-law to ask if he could sleep at our house on the way back from a music festival, arriving at 3 a.m., a call from another brother-in- law to ask if he could help about the suicide, and a dejected call from daughter to say her conference was washed out, and we wouldn't see them until Christmas. Prodigal son phones, now 100 miles from home, collect, broke, unrepentant. He's home now, driving his mother crazy because he's a health-food nut and won't eat any of the great meals she is busting to prepare. Result, she cooks one pork chop for me with a baked potato, some squash and a bit of broccoli with cheese, she eats the saw-dust and stuff he eats, and I feel like a pig. Kid brother calls from James Bay project to tell me he's alive, but has had serious surgery and medication, but now feeling great. He's two years younger than I, and is going to retire next July, with a fat pension. This goes over big, as you can imagine. Sixteen phone calls for prodigal son, from friends who seem to have received news of his arrival by tribal drum. He's never here when they call. They all want him to call back. On our bill. As though Ma Bell wants to rub it in, a bell telephone crew, complete with huge trucks, backhoes and other vile machinery, arrives at 8 a.m. every morning, sounding like Revelations will, and tears great holes in my lawn to plant a cable, cutting the roots of my maples, so they'll all die. It's nice to have family. But if Id cut the phone line 20 years ago, and put the money into its stock, I'd be a major shareholder in Bell of Canada today. A Corner for Poets YESTERDAY Did you make someone happy or make someone sad? What did you do with the day that you had? God gave it to you to do just as you would, Did you do something wicked or do something good? Did you lighten a load or some pro- gress impede? Did you look for a rose or just gather a weed? Did you hand out a smile or only a frown? Did you lift someone up or push someone down? What have you done with your wonderful day? God gave it to you -- did you throw it away? Author Unknown. Submitted by a driver of COMMUNITY CARE in and around The Town of Bowmanville. "TO ALL A MERRY CHRISTMAS" Walter A. Short, R.R. 2, Bowmanville, Ontario. SMALLPBy TA LK