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a Scugog Citizen -- Tuesday, July 9, 1991 -- 7 dm VIEWPOINT/COUNTERPOINT John B. McClelland Cathy Olliffe A glance at the caused my stomach 10 do a quick somersault. July 6, 1991, that's what it said. Has it really been 20 years, two long decades, 7300 days since a hoy, stifling July 6 morning in 1971 when fi) one of the most "foolish" things I've ever done in my life. Awake at dawn (actually, I had not been to sleep) feeling a litle wobbly from lack of sleep and cheap red wine, I was swept along with a huge throng making its way through the narrow streets of a city in northern Spain called Pamplona. The "feria" of San Fermin was about to start. Of all Spanish "ferias," the one in Pamplona the first week in July is proba- bly best known. It's a unique phenomena called the "running of the bulls." Only in Spain where the magnificent bull is worshipped 10 be slaughtered could there be a week- long festival which features a stampede of bulls each morning through the streets of this ancient town. What's more, the locals and the tourists fin along with them, taunt them with shouts and hard swats on their flanks with a rolled newspaper. The idea is to come as close to the flashing hooves and sharp horns as possible, without coming in direct contact with one. And so.1 went to Pamplona that year; myself and many thousand others, mostly young, from all over Europe, Canada, the States, the UK, Australia, New Zealand and Spain, of course. And on that first morning of the feria I looked in awe at the six bulls that were to be run thiough the streets. They were large, powerful, black, the Spanish sun glittering off the 'muscle that rippled in their backs and necks as * they pawed the ground and tossed their heads. I felt sick to my stomach for a moment ( not from too much red wine) but a sense of utter terror. Run alongside those beasts through narrow streets? Risk the point of the horn, or being trampled into the hard cobble-stone? Just to be able to say "I did it."? I suddenly wished I was somewhere else. Though 20 years have gone by, I recall the moment so vividly: the heat, the smell, the crowds, the tourists, like myself with fear in their eyes, 'and the Spaniards-some barely in their teens, but all bubbling with a kind of swaggering bravado that I first took for confidence, but which I later learned is just a part of the male dominant calendar this week culture. Running with Bulls is their game, after all, and they enjoy: nothing better than to see fear in the face of one with light hair and blue eyes. Somehow 1 foupd the courage to run that morming. When the bulls were released I was gone like a jack rabbit, rac- "ing as fast as my legs could carry me, head down, too scared to look back or cven sidewards. # I ran atsuch speed that when the arena suddenly appeared, I was virtually alone: the bulls and the real runners (those with courage) were nowhere to be seen. I walked back a few yards, climbed a wall and sat there waiting for the crowd to arrive. Though I stayed on for a few more days, I watched the running each morning from the safety of the sidelines. Several people were trampled, a few gored and numerous were pinned by a 1500 pound bull against a wall or building. Over the years, more than a few people have died "running with the bulls" at Pamplona. And 10 witness the running is to know why. Twenty years have passed. Just where does the time go. So much has happened in that span: finish university, marriage, three ¢hildren, work, turning 40, feeling mortal, more work, the death of my moth- er. Yes, so much in the last 20 years. _ But you want to know what's really scary about looking back 20 years and recalling the bulls of Pamplona? It's not so much that two decades have slipped by, but rather the thqught of the next 20 years. The last 20 years took me from young manhood to the approach of middle age. When that same amount of time goes by again, | will be nearly 65 (if I live that long). And that thought leaves me with the same feeling of dread I felt on the momn- ing of July 6, 1971. The fear of mortality, Twenty years ago, I never thought for a second that I would die, except perhaps under the hooves of a racing bull. Today, I look ahead and see middle-age turning into the "golden years," and then old age. Twenty years is not so long a time. They sail by like snap: onc minute 24 years old, Europe on the cheap, drinking red wine all night and running with bulls in the morning sun. Stop. Close your eyes, a third of a life-time has passed and the eldest son is talking about his driver's licence. Wonder if the bulls will still be running in Pamplona 20 years from now? Did I ever think I would pass this way again as | an old man? Not until now. Round Nashville way, they call the patriarch of every family 'daddy'. I kinda like that. Folksy. Like country music. My daddy grew up on country & west- em.music. Johnny Cash. Hank Williams. Emest Tubb. Those names were gold to my father, who would force feed 'Coal Miner's Daughter' and 'A Boy Named Sue' to me through the pick-up truck's cight-track anytime we went anywhere. - I hated it. We'd get into great fights, my daddy and me, over which tapes should be played -- Hank Sngw or The Guess Who. And guess who always won? When my parents were about my age, most Saturday nights meant Mouse and Pauline, Skinny and his wife would drop around for impromptu wild parties. Mouse would bring his mandolin. Skinny always had an acoustic guitar. Mom played the piano, and everybody sang. Except us kids. I'd be upstairs with a pil- low over my head, wishing Emest Tubb had never written 'Walking The Floor Over You'. But the song must have sunk in because about a year ago, when my husband Doug was thinking up some new country songs to learn, I pestered him to sing Walking The Floor. He'd never heard of it before, so I sang it for him| From memory | Migawd, had that teenager who used to fight with addy heard me that day, I think she would have clear fell over. See, I'm a big country fan now. Ever since they put cable TV in Caesarea, we've been getting The Nashville Network and Country Music Television. Aut first, we flipped by those stations. Then we kinda peeked in at 'em out of curiosity. The next thing we knew, Doug and [ were forcing our friends and rela- tives to watch Marty Stuart's Hijlbilly Rock video. Couple months back, we actually went to see Reba, with Clint Black and Vince Gill; atv Maple Leaf Gardens. Honest to god; best concert I've ever sct ears on. These days, country is all I listen to Drives John B. McClelland crazy, but my daddy likes it just fine. 1 figure that's why I'm looking forward to Festival Days this weekend so much. Country '91, they*re calling it. Plenty of good clean country music, fresh as a mountain stream, pretty as a meadow. B= [UnNsILVED MyYg1ERY =¥ The place Is Stephenson's Point -- and that's all anyone knows about this happi- ly informal photo (all they need is a big pic-I-nic basket, Boo-boo). Do you know any of these people? Did they have egg salad or tuna sandwiches? There are many, many unidentified photos at Scugog Shores Museum, znd cura- tor Gall Sheridan would love, some day, to have them all properly Identified. To give her a hand, the Citizen willl print a different 'unsolved mystery' each week, in the hopes some of thesé marvellous but mysterious people will have names once again. = SNAPSHOT OF THE WEEK = B= 4r76r HOURS ry mind, the Scugog wants 10g) hear from you. their minds. Hours', Laurie Blaettler of the Cruisin' Classic Car Club supplied this great photo of two neat old cars. The club rendezvoused at the IGA parking lot in Port Perry on Sunday, and by all accounts, a vintage time was had Is something bugging you? Or are you thrigled about something? Whatever's on your Who you Citizen RoyYooNe Our motto 1s 'A Proud Voice for Scugog', and more than any- thing, we want to give our read- pois a voice 10 say whatever's on Like other newspapers, we welcome letters to the editor, but to make it even easier-for| readers, we've started After] an after-hours tele- phone hotline, which records! your 'live' letter to the editor. If you're 100 busy to sit down and write, simply dial 985- NEWS anytime before 9 a.m. and after 5 p.m, weekdays and all the time on weekends. Our After Hours answering I al 1] glmachine will record your message (keep it a reason: able length). Then we'll tran: scribe your call and publish it in our After Hours column. Please include your name and phone number. No anony- mous messages will be printed. The phone number wont be published, but we will call you After Hours is even easier than it sounds. So call us! by all. Send us your favorite shots ~ of your family, your your vacation, whatever photo you've taken and you're proud of! Citizen staffers will select their favorite s ind run them in this space. Then, at the end - of the year, we'll have a panel of Judges choose their favorite picture, and the photographer will win a brand new 35mm camera. 985 - NEWS] /