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A new resident was admit- ted to the Home on Friday, September 1st. He is Mr, Garfield Stone of Seagrave who was transferred from the Victoria Manor in Lind- say. There was .one discharge from the Home during the week. Mary Botty went home, : With the re-opening of High School, many of the temporary summer. - staff have left to return to school. Included among these are Jim Murray, Debbie Mc- Curdy, Penny Venning, Kim Reynor, Sharon Gray and Mary Ann Vanham, We wish them all success in their studies. Mrs. Lola Leadlay spent a wonderful day in Fenelon Falls where along with other members of the family she visited with her nephew. There were many visitors to the Home during the week end and with: the nice weather the following resi- dents were able to get out for car rides in the surrounding Nursing Home News - country: Mr. Christie} Mr, Jake Taylor,' Mr, Lloyd Myers, Mrs. Pearcey, Mrs, Crooks, Mrs. Marlon, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. McFarlane and Mrs. Letcher. The residents wish to express their thanks to the men of the Bingo Committee at Immaculate Conception Church for their gift of candies. These "goodies" were thoroughly enjoyed by everybody. i Once again, Father Paul Vernooy visited the Home on Friday, September 1st and adminstered Holy Commun- ion to all the Catholic residents. Falls are frequent causes of accidentsin all age groups, accordingv to St. John Am- bulance. Floors should not be highly polished and rugs, especially small scatter rugs should be secured to prevent slipping. This can be done by putting rubber mats under them or by sewing rubber jar rings on the underside of the rugs at the corners and sides. Mr. Harold Grove of Sunderland receives Robert Flett Trophy for Grand Champion Female Holstein at the Black and White Show at the Fair Monday. Mr. As | see it BY JOHN B. McCLELLAND A friend of mine died last week. Although I have never actually met him, talked to him, or even seen him for that matter, I still feel quite correct in referring to him as a friend. And the news of his death created a sadness within me. Sadness because since I first came to know of him several years ago, I have had an increasing amount of respect and admiration, not so much for who he is, or even what he has done, but rather for what he represents, : You see, Sir Francis was no ordinary man. He was a non-conformist long before non-conformity sort of became a vogueish thing. He was a rebel, an outsider, a loner, who in all liklihood took a pretty good look at the way most men lead their lives-job, fantily, etc. - and said to himself "no way, not for me." He was called eccentric, and in the last year of his life, people began whispering that maybe Chichester was starting to crack up. They had reason enough to believe this; for despite his age (70) and deteriorating health (blood disease) he set out on June 17 to sail the Atlantic, alone. He never made it of course. And when he finally radioed for help he was so weak he had to be carried from the Gypsy Moth. Was he cracking up? Don't you ever believe it. He knew exactly what he was doing, and despite extreme physical discomfort, was loving every minute of it. But, on August 26, the ocean of life slipped away from him, and at 70 Sir Francis. Chichester was dead. I cannot help wonder how a man like Chichester ~would accept the thought of death. I mean here was a man who squeezed every ounce of living out of life. In 1929, with the aviation industry still in its infancy, he flew alone from Britain to Australia, and then set out to solo around the world. (He didn't make it). Five years ago he traversed nearly 30,000 miles of ocean, alone on his ketch, Gypsy Moth. (He made it this time and was knighted for the feat). In all liklihood he accepted death much the same as he looked upon living: "I don't want to live too long, I just want to enjoy the years that are left." What is it about a man like Chichester that captures the fantasy and imagination of men of lesser deeds? Envy, I suppose, and that hidden desire most of us have to rise above mediocrity, with this heightened by the fact most of us realize that for any number of reasons we'll never do it. Despite the fact more and more people appear to be 'doing their own thing" these days, men of Chichester's gristle are fewer and fewer. By this I mean men who truly stand above the rank and file plebs; men who thumb their noses at convention, who don't have to justify anything to anybody, and, who through it all are successful. It has heen said that many of the problems "modern" man has stem from an inter-relation of three things: obesity, alcoholism and boredom. To Flett (right) presents the trophy. At the lett ot picture is Ben Cooper from England who judged the contest. boredom, I would add mediocrity. The man who has the courage, the guts, and the mental and physical capabilities to break the shackles of boredom and mediocrity is a man who has truly lived, for himself. . Chichester, I think, did just that. In an age of petty artists who are ripping off for money, land, power, phony. recognition and plastic prestige, Sir Francis ripped off living and beat them all at their own game by a country niile. But he's gone now, his ketch dry-docked and turned into some knd of museum. How ghastly to think of a mob of tourists curiously poking and sniffing around in the Gypsy Moth, when very few, if any would be truly aware of what the Gypsy is, or what she represents. In reading this, you've probably detected that I have a fair amount of esteem for this old man of the sea. I do. I also have a fair amount of envy of the way" he did things. One of these years I'm going to build myself a 50-foot sloop, buy some books on how to navigate by the stars, stock abroad some food and fresh water, sail her down the St. Lawrence, and on reaching the vast Atlantic set her on a course for the Spice Islands (wherever they are). By jove, that would be the life Ah well, back to the typewriter. I guess in a nutshell that's the difference between Chichester and ordinary mortals like me and you. We are content with our dreams, while he was too busy doing to have time for dreaming. As I write this, I note it is the last day of August, 1972. For as long as I can remember, I have always felt just a little sadness on August 31. The reason for. this probably goes back to when I was a school-boy, and the end of August meant the beginning of September, and that, as everybody knows meant back to school. Boy, how I used to hate that dreary public school with its hardwood floors that always smelled of varnish on the first day of classes. And it smelled of paint too. I think they used to paint that old school every summer, and the colaur scheme never changed: institutional green, brown and grey. It was a crime somehowthat young lad of ten who spent a summer swimming, fishing, running and playing in the fresh air and the warm sun all of a sudden found himself in a classroom that reeked of varnish and paint. It was kind of a tough adjustment, one that I don't think I ever coped with completely. And one that I'm sure youngsters today are having the same problems with. y September affects me in other ways as well, for it is a time of great transition: birds are moving, plant life, flowers, leaves are dying, crops are harvested, and a hundred different things sort of reach the end of a cycle. At this time of year I seem to be highly conscious of the passing of time. And as the year begins to slip . away, I find myself waiting for it to end. Bitter-sweet September slips into fickle October which in turn gives way to dreary November, and then the year can't end quickly enough for me, But that's the way it goes, nothing can be changed. Yet in reality everything is constantly changing. Life, death; coming, going, and just being. All things must pass, wrote George Harrison, and I guess you can't put it much more plainly than that a > i PLEASE TAKE NOTICE [| | The Third Instalment of 1972 TAXES for the Village of Port Perry are Due on or before September 15, 1972. J. N. 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