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The Pod Peoey Sha Question of the Week... What do you think of the idea to move Festival Days from Port Perry's downtown core to the fairgrounds? Do you have a suggestion that you think would make a good question of the week? Call us at 905-985-7383. Glen Herring It sounds all right to me; it'll probably be just as convenient for most peo- ple to get to. Dale Grant It won't be as convenient; I don't think as many people will go to it and there won't be as much business for the down- town stores if it's at the fairgrounds. We need to keep it down- town; it really keeps the downtown core going. There won't be as many people eating and shop- ping downtown Linda Arbuckle | Jody Risto It's a good idea because Id like to see the fair- grounds used more any- way. It's a great idea. Al McCord It's a good idea. If you take it to the fairgrounds then you've got two schools nearby, and that will help draw the kids to the festival. Don't worry: This isn't Oshawa LETTERS To the Editor: I wanted to respond to the letter in last week's "Letters to the Editor" on the writer's concern that our downtown could resemble that of downtown Oshawa should the construc- tion of a new IGA plaza be approved for the west side of town. While I share the writer's concerns that every precaution must be taken to preserve the unique atmosphere of Port Perry, I don't think we have to worry that our downtown will end up looking like downtown Oshawa. In my opinion, the slow death of downtown Oshawa can not be blamed on the Midtown Mall or the Oshawa Centre, but rather the environment one is subjected to while shopping in their downtown core. Having until recently worked daily in down- town Oshawa, I can tell you what turns me off of wanting to shop there. The first problem is parking meters; then there is the prostitution and drug trade that take place on the streets. They have a seedy hotel with a tough reputation complete with a strip club. You can't walk further than a few blocks without a beggar or panhandler stopping you and asking for money. You have the mentally ill who are no longer under the care of a health facility walking the streets talking to them- selves or shouting out obscenities at passersby. It is the homeless men from the men's shelter who occupy the city benches or drink along the banks of the Oshawa creek. And finally you have the numerous rooming houses, rental housing and the Ontario Housing projects that encircle the downtown core. I think we are all proud that we have such a beautiful town in which to shop. However, we need to support future growth in our business sector and face the fact that we have no more room to expand in-our downtown core. I think new businesses located to the south or west of Port Perry will be beneficial to every- one if planned and controlled properly and will not result in the demise of our downtown core. Steven Edwards, Prince Albert 0 We've got more of your letters on page 8 y by Jeff Mitchell SADDLE SORES AND A BRUSH WITH DEATH This morning, | shot six holes in my freezer | think | got cabin fever : - Jimmy Buffett Ah, yes... the leaves are dry and crumbling on the ground, and now when the wind blows out of a darkening sky it bears flakes of snow. It's getting too cold to wear shorts while out for the morning run, and there's a thin layer of ice on the puddles in the parking lot at work. The south, the sunny, balmy, warm and glorious south, beckons. Mexico. Venezuela. Cuba. Marguerita Island. Beautiful sounding places. All could mean paradise in lovely foreign languages. Peopled by beaming, welcoming hosts, happy island people. Cold, crisp beer with lunch. Fish that was swimming a couple of hours ago. Cocktails on a slate patio with the sun setting over your shoulder into an awesome, foaming ocean. Hot nights beneath whispering ceiling fans. There are drawbacks and hazards, of course. Hangovers from eating squid and drinking tequila. Scary airlines. Inexplicable rashes. And horses. The first time | went to Mexico, many years ago now, | allowed my wife to sign us up for a horseback venture into the Sierra Madre moun- tains that surrounded the town we were in. Early on a bright morning | was hauled from bed, bleary from a night of cerveza and chilis with the locals, and directed to the back of a rusting pick-up driven by a man named Pedro. He had either no knowledge of or regard for basic rules of the road. The harrowing drive culminated with Pedro's encountering a washed-out bridge and, without pausing, barreling through a swift river that sloshed perilously over the fenders of the truck, setting the beer cooler afloat and deeply frightening and number of gringos. Eventually we arrived at our drop-off point, where another man named Pedro awaited with a collection of tired, mangy horses. | chose the most lively-looking specimen, a rather younger, healthier male, jet black, and hopped into the saddle, ignoring the loss of equilibrium brought on by the previous night's carousing and the action-packed truck ride. We set out down a packed-dirt trail, the gringos on their horses, Pedro on a burro. Without warning, my horse (whom I've since dubbed Diablo) bolted. He galloped as though he was being chased by Satan, the butcher, and three fat cowboys. His hooves pounded the trail thunderously. Straight away | lost my hold on the reins and my feet came out of the stirrups. My bum flapped painfully up and down in the saddle, and my arms were wrapped tightly around the horse's neck. "Stop! Oh, stop! Ooooohhhh, you $#%&", stop!" | hollered. But he was off to the races. He wasn't stopping for anything. Finally, desperate with the thought that the horse's intent was to throw me from his back and stomp me into mush, | reached up, grabbed his black ear.... and twisted it as hard as | could. Immediately, he came to a halt. | leapt from the saddle like the Cisco Kid and was standing, holding him by the reins, when the rest of the party rode up. | stared murderously at the horse. He stared placidly back. A moment passed. The dust settled. We got along after that, me and Diablo. And | was something of a hero to my new friends. "Well boy," said a big, loud car salesman from Tennessee named Cecil, "yew kin ride!" Later in the trip there was a terrifying plane ride home through an Arkansas tornado. Our Mexican airliner plunged a couple thousand feet into an air pocket, sending debris and frantic prayers scattering through the cabin as it struggled back up into the night sky. _ But we arrived home, more or less safe. | had a stomach ailment, and a sore butt. Thé next year | went back, and tried para-sailing, and plunged eight stories into the Pacific Ocean. No harm done.