Lake Scugog Historical Society Historic Digital Newspaper Collection

Port Perry Star, 29 Jan 1985, p. 4

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y 4 -- PORT PERRY STAR -- Tues. Janvary 29, 1985 editorial comments Enter Frank - Exit Mr. Davis. Enter Frank Miller. While an era in Ontario politics most certainly has come to close with the retirement of Premier William Davis, the thread that has kept the Provincial Tories in - power for so many years (decades) continues with the election of Frank Miller as the premier-designate. When all the ballots were finally counted late Satur- day evening, Ontario Conservatives said they want to stick a few more years with the "small town image" which has worked so well for so long. It was not a surprising victory for Mr. Miller, who hails from Bracebridge, and he no doubt appealed great- ly to a lot of those delegates from similar locales across the heartland of Ontario which has been the traditional life-blood of Tory support. Mr. Davis, as we all know, is from Brampton and proud ot it. Brampton, of course is no sleepy little back- water. It's a growing, sprawling place heavy with in- dustry, manufacturing, and neat subdivisions. But the perception is small town and Mr. Davis played this to the hilt. it is still a long way from Bay Street. Of the four leadership candidates, Mr. Miller was painted with the 'right wing" label, and while that may not exactly be a fair image, he made no bones about the fact he considers himself a small-c conservative. Be that as it may, the other in the race- Roy McMur- try, Dennis Timbrell, and Larry Grossman, can hardly be painted as screaming radicals bent on taking the Party to the left of centre in that so-called political spectrum. We suspect there were a lot of factors at work for Mr. Miller. He was the first to declare his leadership bid and that has to count for something. And if there ever was a mood in Ontario, indeed all of Canada for a small-c approach to government with less intervention in the market-place and a heavy dose of law and order, it is now. A chap by the name of Reagan did pretty well last November using much the same formula. So Frank Miller is bland. He is not a stirring orator. He does not have the image of a mover and shaker. He appears to epitomize exactly the picture of what a lot of people are looking for in politicians these days: hones- ty. fundamental values of trust and hard work, a go-slow approach when it comes to change, a folksy sense of humour, éven a lack of *'big-city" sophistication, if you will. After all, anyone who wears bright tartan sports | jackets in public, no less, surely can't be too bad. No, the Conservative delegates in Toronto last weekend opted once more for the perception of middle- aged bland, rather than the younger, more urbane Larry: Grossman. And they were right, simply because the man from Muskoka is not going to rock any boats, butcher any sacred cows or upset any apple carts. Coupled with the fact that the Liberals and New Democrats in Ontario are spinning their wheels at best, Frank Miller will lead the Tories to victory in the next provincial election. But beyond that, things will start to change. Even dynasties like the Ontario Tory Party grow long in the tooth. The Liberals and New Democrats almost certain- ly will dump their current leaders in an attempt to inject some fresh blood, and the people of Ontario themselves may start to feel that this Province is in need of a good shaking from top to bottom. What worked so well for Mr.'Miller in his leadership bid will work against him when the people of Ontario begin to grow restless. We wonder as well if Mr. Miller will have the strength of personality and ability to follow Mr. Davis in maintain- ing total Party loyalty. We are not suggesting that he could face a palace revolt, but if younger members start sensing un-rest in the province, Mr. Miller may find himself looking over his shoulder. But that kind of thing, if it happens, is a long way down the road. For the time being, Mr. Miller can be ex- pected to govern with immense caution. Change will be gradual and popular. The selling of Suncor and other Crown Corporations may take place, but then it's fashionable for governments these days to "privatize." or at least talk about it. But we can't for example, imagine Mr. Miller tackl- ing a thorny issue like the extension of full funding to Catholic schools, or moving the province to bilingualism in everything but law, as Mr. Davis has done. The economy, transfer payments to municipalities, health care, universities, balancing the budget, manufac- turing, Ontario's place in Canada and the world, are all issues that will have to be addressed by the new leader over the next few years. But watch for change in law and order issues like longer prison sentences, tougher drink- (Turn to page 7) SE RVATIVE LEAYET s Corn wvEeENTION =~ . Yo VAY * Zi 3 "Hl Sd <RARL CLATTIEN PoRTPERRY STARR gs J Ld chatterbox by Cathy Robb ~~ WHAT, US LOITER? Late Friday afternoon, mid-town Port Perry. The snow is falling thick and fast, it's f-f-freeze-your-buns- off weather and it's been one heck of a week in the trenches. Marilyn Wood and me are giddy. ~. "I've got to go to the bank and then I've got to go to the IGA and pick up a few things," she says with a gleam in her eye. 'Vern (her illustrious hubby) is go- ing to meet me at the store and pick out the meat because he always hates the meat I bring home." Oh, hey, sounds like my kind of carnival, so I trudge merrily behind Marilyn in her search for domestic ° equilibrium. The Royal Bank, as per usual on a Friday, is jam- packed. Blue-collar workers like ourselves are lined up to the door, pay-cheques in hand, anxious to get on with the weekend. The sombre atmosphere inside the bank nearly quashes our enthusiasm, but our spirits are sav- ed by the lady in the red hat. Bethany Schryburt noses up to us in line and makes some notorious crack about pushing us around. Her obscenely red hat is suctioned neatly on her head like a cork in a wine bottle, her lipsticked grin smiles rakishly and some pink piece of fur protrudes from her coat pocket. Later on, we ask her about the pink fur. It's a pink tail, she says, that acts as a key ring. So we yap at the bank, giggling at all our own jokes, laughing with the bank tellers and generally making horses' rears of ourselves. After waiting at one wicket for ten minutes or more, _ a teller comes up to Beth and says, 'There's no one at that wicket to help you." We laugh, and leave Beth to fend for herself, her face as red as her hat. The trip to the IGA is short and cold. Marilyn near- ly falls at least twice, and once more when we step in- side the store. Reams of shoppers' feet have left brown cesspools puddled all around the grocery store, as one young employee tried vainly to mop up, making a trek around the aisles about as easy as wading through Bird- seye Swimming Pool. But wade we did, tossing all manner of foodstuff into Marilyn's cart (except for meat because Vern always - hates the meat she brings home). When we were done, we splashed over to the coffee pot. which IGA manager Jim Grieve has so kindly been filling up every winter for the past few years. "It's customer relations," says Jim. 'They ap- preciate a hot cup of coffee and a cookie when they come in from the cold." Stashed in between the plant jungle and a cookie display is a table laden with a tremendous pot of coffee and a plate of cookie crumbs (thank goodness, or I'd be tempted to eat something). Usually the plate is full of real live cookies but it's late on a Friday, after all, and all the school kids have already been in to pig out. Marilyn pours me a cuppa and we lean back against the overflowing shopping carts to wait for Vern. But no sooner do we get comfortable then Barb Ross and her son Kenny come through the door. "Well, hi,"' we say to Barb and Kenny (no relation to Barbie and Ken). "Fancy meeting you here." Barb sighs and tells us about her supper at Dixie Lee and how bad it's snowing outside. She looks at the floor, sighs, and makes a comment about the water (which, by now, is more like a flood). Kenny eyeballs the cookie plate, and fidgets while his mother and her co-workers gab. "Well, (sigh), I guess I'd better go do my shopping," Barb says, sighing (Barb sighs a lot, I think. Even if she doesn't, she's the type of person who should). At that moment, the Guy Who Did Me In comes "slithering" in the door. I say "'slithering" because Neil Bradley is a snake in the grass. You know the way Durham's finest tuck their little yellow cars in conve- nient hiding places and wait for speeders to go by? Aren't they just like snakes in the grass? Hiding and then striking like poisoned vipers? Yeah, yeah, I'm a little dramatic, but for as lon as I live I will remember Neil Bradley as the cop who gave me my first speeding ticket. Up yntil a few months ago I proudly boasted that I was ticket-free. And then one day on my way back from Oshawa in the boss's car, with Michael Jackson boogying over the tape deck, a Big Mac in one fist, and the seat belt un- used at my side, Neil Bradley pulled me over. I didn't even have my glasses on and I was going 90 km in a 50 zone. Gulp, I thought, they're going to toss me in the slam- mer this time. But not Neil. He didn't mention the seat belt, didn't accuse me of stealing Peter Hvidsten's fancy Buick, didn't notice the eyeglass restriction on my license and didn't say "you're too fat to be eating a Big Mac." No, I've gotta admit, Neil Bradley was okay. Still, he did give me a ticket (however, well- deserved), thus ruining my ability to boast about be- ing ticket-free. So when I saw him come into the IGA. sans uniform, I said "Here comes my favourite person" with as much sarcasm as I could muster (under my breath, of course). Marilyn laughed and said gaily "Hi, Neil," she be- Ing an acquaintance of the Bradley clan. Fortunately, he didn't join us at the coffee pot. And then who should come in but Beth Schryburt, she of the red hat and pink tail. (Turn to page 5)

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