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editorial page What? No Opinions? Last week's edition of the Port Perry Star gave considerable coverage to several capital expenditure projects approved in the past couple of weeks by Scugog Township council. The amounts of money involved are considerable, beginning with $200,000. for a new works department garage; $150,000 for a couple of acres of lakefront property; $80,000 for various park, community hall, and fire department capital budgets; and even the purchase of four new trucks for the Works depart- ment at about $90,000. Even more significant is the fact that the Township is starting to put in motion the construction of a new municipal complex on that parcel of waterfront property, although a formal decision to proceed has not yet been made. We thought we gave the stories fair and consider- able coverage so that the people of this Township would have an idea of what plans are in the making, and we also thought we might hear from some (maybe one) of the people out there who have to pay for these plans. While we didn't exactly camp on the post office steps waiting for the letters to flood in, we did think that we would at least get some indication pro or con from somebody wishing to use the letters to the editor page to express an opinion. Nothing. Not a peep. As this issue is going to press, the letters page is void of comment from the citizens of this Township. And that is troubling to us for two reasons: either we did not present the facts clearly enough, or the people of this Township have no opinion either way, or they just don't care. The Missing Issue Watching the national election campaign as it moves into the home stretch, one could almost come away with the impression that Trudeau, Clark and Broadbent are running for election to a provincial legislature, or even a municipal council. The issues that are being dragged in front of the electorate day in and day out are local ones, dealing with internal problems facing Canada: the economy (naturally), national unity (ditto), tax schemes, mortgage schemes, job creation schemes, etc., etc., etc. . \ NES =e WN ® wa. ra ARN DN rasan WY NN NNR WN R NA \ Si 47s EN 5 Mk I Tv rm ee Fortunately, the national media is slowly starting to pick up on a facet of this election campaign that so far, just does not exist: international relations. 1t is a pity that this has been ignored because how a party or leader perceives Canada's role and position in the international community should have almost as much importance to the voters as the confounded internal problems that we have manufactured for ourselves over the past couple of years. Sure, the price of bread is important, and so are jobs, inflation, national unity, and mortgage pay- ment deduction plans. But so is Canada's role in NATO, for example, and defense spending. So is our position in an organiza- tion like the United Nations, where we spend millions each year as peacekeepers. What about our contributions to the Third World countries, a topic that was hot a few years ago when Canada was accused of being stingy? What about our relations with the Common Market countries, Japan, China, the whole of the Eastern Bloc? What about our relations with the United States? What ever become of the Third Option? Foreign policy is the lost issue in this election, and it is a sign that Canada may be in as deep trouble as some politicians keep telling us we are. We are looking inward; insular, parochial, caught up in our own phobias, forgetting that Canada has to live in a world of some 150 other countries and how we get along with them has a very real effect on ourselves. It's not just the fault of the politicians that foreign affairs is being forgotten. It is up to the Canadian people to start asking some questions. bill IT'S SPRING! Don't ever try to tell me that teaching school is a dull life. Oh, it can be pretty gruelling, not to mention gruesome, in January and February. But once we get that March break behind us, the whole scene blooms like a riotous garden in May. For one thing, it's spring. And as you walk around the halls of a high school, trying to pry apart couples who are so tightly grooved that you're afraid they're going to cave in a row of lockers, you can't help thinking you were born 20 or 30 years to soon. For another, the cursed snow and ice have gone, or almost, and you know there are only 10 or 11 weeks of martyrdom left until you walk out of that shoe factory, (which most modern schools resemble) and kiss it goodbye for eight weeks. Then, in the spring, all kinds of things pop up. The drama festival. The teachers vs. students hockey game, in which an assort- ment of pedants, from nearly 60 down to the late 20's in age, pit their long-gone skills against a group of kids in their prime, who would dearly love to cream the math teacher who failed them in the March exams, or the English teacher who objected gently to their use of four-letter words in smiley essays. As I write, our school is bubbling with excitement. First of all, our custodians are on strike. This gets the kids all excited, and rumours fly about the school being closed, and a free holiday. Then their faces drop a foot when they're told they may be going to school in July, to make up for lost time. And they start cleaning up after themselves, instead of leaving it all to the janitors, as they usually do, and hope the strike will be over tomorrow. They don't give a diddle about the issues in a strike. 'They are practical. They want to be out of here on the first possible day in June. Don't blame them. It's human nature. For teachers, who generally respect the caretakers, it is an object lesson in how important are the latter - the guys who sweep the floors, vacuum the rugs, wash the windows, and generally do the hard and dirty work of keeping the school spruce and sparkling. As an old floor-scrubber and lavatory-cleaner, from the first job I ever had, I perhaps respect them more than anyone. Unlike other countries, like England, where unions are closely knitted, we cross the picket line and go to work, however much we respect and sympathize. If we don't, we're fired. Simple as that. But we are forbidden, by our union, to do any of their work, such as emptying waste-basket, sweeping a floor. Sort of fun. But the really big excitement among our staff, at least the males on it, is the shuffle-board tournament. Oh, I don't mean the outdoor kind, where elderly people push with a pronged stick a plate-like object. No this is the kind you find in taverns across the land: guys with a beer in one hand and a two-dollar bill in the other, shouting their bets through the smoke. We don't have beer in our staff room, but we do have a shuffle-board table. It's no frill from the school board. A staff member built it, and the rest of us bought it from him. It's the greatest relaxer in the world, after teaching four classes in a row the great truths of the world to 120 kids, 90 per cent of who are about as interested as an aardvark. Shuffle-board is to curling what dirty pool is to English billiards. Curling is a gentle- man's game, theoretically, where you shake hands with the winners, and both teams sit down for a drink and discuss the fine points of the game. The spectators are either behind glass or up in the stands, where they politely applaud a good shot and groan sympathy when someone makes a near miss. Something like a cricket match, with good manners as important as winning. Shuffle-board is a game where you walk away after losing, face red with rage at your stupid partner, who missed a key shot. I have never seen any hand-shaking, but have heard a lot of muttering. The specta- tors constantly heckle and offer coaching tips designed to destroy the player's concen- tration. "Put a guard on it. No, draw around it. Tap yours up. Draw deep. Play safe and cut them down." etc. There is universal delight among the watchers when a great player misses an easy shot, and reluctant grunts of appreciation when a poor player makes a brilliant shot. Out-psyching the opponent is a vital part of the game. Just as he is about to shoot, you lean far over to blow away an imaginary speck of dust, hiding the rock he is shooting at with your tie. You always blurt, 'Don't miss now," just as he is about to make game shot. And he frequently does. It sounds like foul play, and it is. But it can be hilarious. Shuffle-board brings out the absolute worst in characters who are normally considered to be people of integrity. As played in our staff-room, it is not a game for those who believe in winning in a gentleman- ly fashion. They wind up with ulcers and don't sleep nights. In our type shuffle-board, the mighty can fall, and the turkeys become eagles. I teamed up with another venerable gentle- man, both of us former prisoners-of-war (on opposite sides), and we showed some of those young punks who were in their diapers while we were trying to make a better world for them. We came out of eight games with four wins, .500, the best I've ever hit in my life. And if that dummy Hackstetter hadn't missed his draw in the fifth game, and bumped the opposition up for five, we'd have won the tournament. The Argyle Syndicate Ltd. ¥) x