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CITIZEA COMMENT Rejeanne Guy-Galbraith- the courage of conviction The case of Rejeanne Guy-Galbraith has become a national news item, and it all began here in Penetanguishene. It would seem a sad commentary on our society, when a person has to go to extremes to make the news. At any rate, major media sources such as the illustrious CBC didn't waste any time jumping on the bandwagon Penetanguishene, oddly enough, has been relatively quiet about the case of Rejeanne Guy-Galbraith. At least there hasn't been much public discussion I've heard but two conversations involving the case, and both of those took place at the arena--during a hockey game of course One of the conversalions ended rather abruptly with both parties deciding that Ms Guy-Galbraith was a radical at heart, and that little else could be expected from a radical It seems an over-simplified conclusion, but everyone is entitled to their opinion The other conversation made a lol more sense. It concluded with one party saying there isn't anything wrong with French, and it should be taught in schools, but Ms. Guy Galbraith has gone "too far' with her protest Whether or not Ms. Guy-Galbraith is right er wrong is a matter that must be decided by , the courts It should be remembered, however. that whether or not she is a radical is irrelevant Ms. Guy-Galbraith is standing up for something that she 'believes is rightfully hers--tha! is her right to stand trial in her nalive toungue She has made her case, and she refuses to back down. And that is a quality that all too few people possess in our society Whatever else Rejeanne Guy-Galbraith is, she is a person who has the courage of her convictions If the courts rule against her demand to have her trial in French, she will pay the price of her convictions. If they rule in favour of Ms. Guy-Galbraith, it will establish a true state of bilingualism in provincial courts And what is a true state of bilingualism? "A policy of bilingualism does not mean thal everyone must speak two languages. It means that a cilizen can use either French or English when dealing with the state, and that, whenever numbers make it practical, he can educate his children in either language."' (A statement made by Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau during an address to the Liberal Convention in Ottawa, April 5, 1968 Anxious to support chamber: reader Dear Sir: We have your circular letter dated January 1978 inviting us to become a member of the Penetanguishene Chamber of Commerce and to support it financially. We have been a member of the '"'Chamber"' for as long as we can remember. For many years the undersigned burned the midnight oil as a director of the "Chamber". Over the years, the "Chamber" had developed a policy to encourage the business community to show a true image of the bilingual nature of the community it serves. For two con- seculive years now, we have continued to support the "Chamber"' while voicing strong objections to what seemed to be a change in the 'Chamber's' policy regarding the French linguistic group in the community Your letter once more raises that question. Your letter makes a point of holding up the example of the two major cultures working together. I would invite the directors to examine the facts Is the "Chamber"' really encouraging the community to show the bilingual nature of its composition? By asking the members of the "Chamber"' to choose if they want an English or French membership decal instead of the bilingual decal which the "Chamber"' had distributed to its members for many years until two years ago, we believe that the "Chamber" is defeating the very thing it professes to espouse. Is the business community -- of Penetanguishene doing anything to attract the French speaking consumer to this community? If so, what is it offering which is better than that which is offered in the communities of Midland and Barrie? Is the business community afraid of a back-lash from the rest of the community if it were to cease treating the French-speaking con- sumer as a second class citizen? The "Chamber"' is emphasizing the need to promote tourism. Instead of merely paying lip service to the "'two major cultures working together" in Penetanguishene, why not make a concentrated effort to encourage both the municipality and the business community to advertise openly that the two founding languages and cultures are here for the rest of Canda to visit We do not agree that our bilingual com- munity is unique in Ontario, however the rate of assimilation in Penetanguishene is fast becoming unique as one of the bilingual communities in Ontario's melting pot society We are most anxious to support the "Chamber" if it will adapt a more realistic attitude toward the two linguistic groups it professes to serve We are most anxious to hear your views in this regard Yours truly, R.J. Asselin R.J. Asselin Insurance Agency Ltd. Queen's Park report George Taylor M.P.P. Committment evident in daycare expansion The Ontario Government's commitment to ensure thal those in greatest need receive priority in services is evident in the Ministry of Community and Social Services' ex pansion of day care facilities in recent years Priority consideration has been given to increasing the number of day care places for handicapped children, native children and children from low-income families Since 1971, two major capital expansion programs have channelled some $25 million into renovations and construction of day care centres. The total result of the expansion program has meant an increase of about 6,200 spaces, thus bringing the total to 52,000 spaces available in licensed day care nur series in Ontario, including services provided for the handicapped and subsidized private home day care programs In Simcoe Centre, there are day care centres (full day programs) and half-day nurseries (half-day programs) operating in many communities. Barrie, for instance, has 4 day care centres offering 178 places, with one centre carrying out an am-pm program for 20 handicapped children. There is also a francophone day care centre with 15 spaces, 7 nursery schools offering am-pm programs to 213 children, and a half-day nursery for mentally retarded children offering am-pm programs for 30 children. In Bradford, there is one half-day nursery with 30 places. Vespra has 2 half-day nur- series with 42 places; Tiny, including Penetanguishene, has four francophone half- day nurseries with over 50 places; and Christian Island has a day care centre with su spaces. The Private Home Day Care Program has 12 units operating in the riding as well. If you require specific information on, the day care program in your community, call the Ministry of Community and Social Services, day care program, at 705-737-1311. For the Private Home Day Care Program, call Simcoe County Social Services at 705-726- 9300. In addition to supporting day care centres with integrated programs for handicapped children, the Ministry of Community and Social Services is developing in-home sup- port services to supplement the training provided in day care centres for handicapped The Ministry of Community and Social Services is also exploring the possibility of using day care counsellors in local com- munities. Their function would be to provide assistance to parents in locating appropriate day care services for their children, either in private homes or licensed group care cen- tres. Such a service would help to maximize the use of existing facilities and could be carried oul with relatively modest cost. It is the government's aim to assure that people in need can remain in their own homes and communities by placing greater em- phasis upon the utilization and development of existing community facilities and resources. In this way, those in need benefit and the cost to the taxpayer does not increase substantially The Penetanguishene Citizen Ss IADIAN a uN Fs B.., CNA ' 709 OTE A Wwe \eWspapias COMPS 75 Main Street TELEPHONE 549-2012 Andrew Markle Publisher Victor Wilson, General Manager Howard Elliott, Editor Member of Audit Bureau of Circulations Member of the Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association Subscription Rates: Home Delivery: 20c Weekly, $10.40 Year Mail Subscription $9.50 yearly in Canada $24.00 USA or foreign Audit Bureau of Circulations regulations require that mail subscriptions be paid in advance Second Class Mail Registration Number 2327 Page 4, Wednesday, February 1, 1978 La : This pictureof McEvala's school house * ~~ == ae > n Tiny Township P. ay was taken around 4 ss 1898. Andrews Sisters make guiet , clean house pets by Shirley Whittington Var ae / : i Tes YZ y a Qk ie = SS 4 " fh Anybody out there want to buy a house? Ours is so disorderly and cluttered these days that I'd rather sell it than clean it. Visitors don't say 'Hello' any more. They say "Whal time does the rummage sale start?" The problem is that we are all so busy going in and out that we never seem to have time to pul the things away thal we go in and out for. What have we been doing lately? Our front hall will tell you. It's like a diary, with daily entries of ski boots, trombones, newspapers, library books, clothes that must be taken to the cleaners and clothes that have just come from the cleaners. Gradually all this clutter has spread through the house until now one needs a police escort to get through to the kitchen. As if that weren't enough to depress me, the Andrew's Sisters are pleading mutely for tank-cleaning. The Andrew's Sisters are the three goldfish we brought in from our outdoor pond when the weather got cool. We called them after Maxine, LaVerne and Patti because if they stood upon their tails with those pouty little mouths wide open, they'd look just like a female vocal ensemble, in tacky gold lamé. When the ice began to form on their pond, we brought them indoors and installed them in a large tank on the top of the refrigerator where the cat couldn't get them. It seemed like a good idea al the time, but now whenever we have visitors, they wonder why we keep a tank of murk and slime on top of the refrigerator. On the whole, fish are unsatisfactory pets. You can't hug them. They won't do tricks for company. You can't tuck your toes under them to keep warm on a cold night and fish don't bark when the mailman comes. In fact, they are rather goopy creatures. Our house could be burning down, or a burglar could be making off with my collection of discount coupons, but would those fish care? Would they flap their fins in alarm and thump the sides of their tank to awaken the household? Never. On the other hand, they don't eat much or dig holes in the lawn or make messes on the carpet. In fact, one becomes quite attached to them. When our son went away to college, he missed the Andrew's Sisters so much _ that he bought himself a pair of tiny goldfish, installed them in a giant wine bottle and christened them Szeks and Zardi. The Squire likes the Andrew's Sisters so much that he makes a point of visiting the refrigerator several times of an evening, just to say hello to them. Once we had a pair of giant goldfish, and the Squire enjoyed them so much that he decided to do them a favour. He bought an enormous brush, rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed their tank until it glistened. The next morning, both fish were floating belly-up, as dead as mackerels, or as goldfish who had reacted unhappily to whatever chemical was in the bristles of that scrubbing brush. We all felt terrible about their demise, and in fact we kept their golden corpses in the freezer. They were too beautiful to throw away. They stayed there until a weekend guest unearthed them one night, in a search for some ice cubes. Now every time the Squire complains about the debris in the front hall, I remind him of those two fish, victims of housecleaning overkill. I remind him also that we will not all fit in the freezer. Still, those ghostly forms flitting about in the murk on top of the refrigerator are starting to bother me, and I guess I'm going to have to do something about it. But after I get the thing cleaned, I'm going to drop in a couple of tiny sponges and a fish ladder or two. Maybe the Andrew's Sisters will get the hint. Creatures who live in glass houses should do their own house-cleaning, and if that turns the Andrew's Sisters into fishwives, sq be it. Holidays contribute to moral delinquency by Bill Smiley rms One of the most pleasant experiences in the world, for those of us who, if not over the hill, are al least sitting at the top contemplating with a mixture of dismay and scared exhilaration the slippery slope we have climbed, and the greasy one we are about to descend, is getting back to normal after lurching through the "joys" of the holidays that end the year. And if one of my students gave me a sen- lence like that last one on composition, I'd probably tear it to ribbons for lack of coherence and unity. But perhaps those very things--coherence and unity--are the things so lacking in the holiday season, and to which we return with a sigh of relief in the short cold days and long cold nights of January. We had a rather bleak Christmas this year. Our hearts were in the right place, but my teeth weren't. Several of them had joined that little limbo where your teeth go when they decide to leave you to your own devices, otherwise known as gums. I put a good face on it, as it were, trying to conceal from my wife, with her flashing white teeth, my mental, spiritual and physical humiliation at having to exist on pea soup, soft-boiled eggs and medicinal brandy. But it didn't work. We had the usual fight about the tree, finally getting it up after four hours of recriminations, tears and explosions of rage and frustration. This year we put it in a bucket of wet sand, after years of trying to set it up in pails of coal, in various tree stands, and on a flat board nailed to the trunk. As usual, it toppled heavily in all directions but the right one, and we had to tie it to the wall with string. Every year my wife says other people get their tree to stand without using string. And every year I defy her to show me one tree in town that isn't trussed to the wall in some way For Christmas dinner, I'd bought a fat duck. But the old lady didn't feel like eating an entire duck by herself. So we sat around rather vacantly and stared at the huge pile of parcels under the tree, which could not be opened, of course, because 90 per cent of them were for "the boys,' and the boys weren't expected till the day after Boxing Day. So the day they did arrive, noses running freely, we cooked the duck and a roast of beef, and a happy time was had by all, trying to put front-end-loaders and fire trucks and other plastic monstrosities together. You know, there was something to be said for those old days during the Depression, when kids got a pair of mitts or sox and maybe a 15-cent bubble pipe. At least the adults didn't have to spend hours trying to find parts for Tinker Toys and Leggo and Sesame St. scattered all over the living room. They didn't have to try to get together stuff that would have taxed Leonardo da Vinci. However, the boys were a roaring delight, as always, and their Gran spoiled them silly, and their mother told me what was wrong with my entire attitude to teaching (she's been at it three months and has all the questions and most of the answers), and their father drowsed quietly during the piano concert that followed, and yours truly ran out every hour to scrape 10 inches of snow off the car. But this is not normalcy. How joyous it is to get back to the old, humdrum routine. To hear that thrilling, drilling sound of the alarm clock at 7.15, totter to the bathroom with arthritic joints giving out cracks like maple trees in a deep frost, and to emerge in three-quarters of an hour, smelling of shaving cream, toothpaste and honest soap, another chapter of a novel read. How very pleasant it is to wade out to the garage in the barely lighted morning, snow flying in all directions, scratch the ice off the inside of your windshield with your finger- nails, and try to start the old beast, which emits a couple of grunts like a lady moose in labor, and falls totally, unforgivably silent. How thrilling to get back to work, the salvation of many a man and woman, and exchange witty repartee about losing your boots at the New Year's Eve party, and whose snowmobile broke down, and why Jack's nose is swollen with grog-blossoms, and how much white guck there is in the driveway. And then there's the delight of getting home after work, and sitting down for one of those intimate chats with your wife, who tells you, at interminable length, how to place a "dart" in a pattern for sewing, when all you know about darts is that it's played in a pub. And to discover that for dinner you're having hamburg and onions, which you had in the cafeteria for lunch. And that the bill for the furnace repairs came to $48, and that the man wants 50 bucks to clean the ice off the roof, and the paper boy claims you owe him for six weeks. I don't know about you, but I can't stand too many of these holidays: the slothful lying-in in the morning, the staying up until three to watch a late movie, the one-hour coffee breaks morning and afternoon. Its debilitating. It contributes to moral delinquency. Far better the comfortable horror of the regular routine of a Canadian winter. Rediscovering the transistor under the pillow. By Dave Wilson Ever so often, it seems that we rediscover something that in the course of years, we may have forgotten. The rediscovery can be either a painful or joyful experience. If it's a good rediscovery, it is much like seeing an old friend again. If it's bad, it can lead you to start thinking of albatrosses and such things hovering over your head. I recently had a rediscovery, and mer- cifully it was one of the former. My rediscovery was not exactly one of those profound and important ones that historians see as Crucial Turning Points. It didn't have the nobleness that is attributed to rediscovering the virtues of chivalry, for example, or realizing that after all these years of doubt, the ontological argument is right. No, it was on a slightly lower plateau. I rediscovered late night AM radio. My rediscovery was not without its causes. It had, like many other things, to do with my parents. Four years ago, they saw me, pure and innocent, off to university. Four months ago they saw me return to their midst, the proud possessor of certain bad habits only a university student can learn. One of them was smoking. My parents have displayed real courage in tolerating all but this one of my bad habits. When I want to replenish the nicotine content of metabolism, I have to go outside. _ Being sent outside to smoke in the summer Is nol too bad. Being sent outside to smoke in the winter is hell. Consequently, whenever it's time for a butt, I head straight for my car. That's where I rediscovered AM radio. When it's 20 below out, and you're sitting shivering for the sake of the Du Maurier company, you start to look for things to distract you from the discomfort, and really, the humility of the whole scene. AM radio has done that for me. I now quite enjoy trekking out through the snow for a cigarette. My car, my habit, and my radio, make a nice, comforable coccoon on these cold, black winter nights. I rediscovered the radio on one dark and frigid evening a couple of weeks ago. I was fooling around with the dial, trying to find at least one station that didn't have four others coming in on top of it. | eventually found such a frequency, and the station turned out to be from West Virginia. It's call letters were WBCW---the latter two, of course, denoting Country and Western. The show that I had tuned to was a live broadcast of a local music hero, whose voice led one to think that if they put the clothespins on any tighter, his nose would fall off. Anyway, as I sat there giving thanks for my good fortune, I started feeling like a lost, forgotten friend had just sat down beside me. The more I listened and got interested in the program, the farther away from my frigid circumstances I felt. The same magic that years ago once transformed my pocket sized transistor radio into a culture palace began to return. The voice whining through the speaker in many ways assumed the same sort of importance that I'm sure astronomers must sense when they discover strange electronic beeps being transmitted from the outer edges of the galaxy. More than anything, that voice seemed to be telling me that yes, somewhere beyond the frozen confines of this car, somewhere deep into this unfathomable night, there is someone else who is alive...... and he can't sing much better than I, to boot. I suppose it's that feeling of making con- tact with the outside world that attracted me for so many years to AM radio. When I was very young I would often lie in bed with my transistor tucked under the pillow so my parents wouldn't hear, listening to whatever American rock and roll station whose brief treaty with the upper atmosphere had allowed it to penetrate this far north. When my younger brother moved into my room with me, I revealed my secret to him, and after that we would both lie in bed straining our ears and patiences for glimpses of stations from Texas or Indiana, all the while feeling delightfully conspiratorial and sinful. I'm not sure whether my parents were aware of my clandestine activities. If they weren't, they should have been. I would sometimes stumble down to the breakfast table and be told by my father that Cassius Clay had won again, or that the Maple Leafs had been defeated in the second overtime period of a playoff game--and all I would do is mumble "I know, they should fire Imlach", or "Yeah, but I'm sure Liston rigged the fight." _ As I got older, Ib more sophisticated in my approach to late night radio listening. I became familiar with the stations that came in during specific weather conditions, and to a certain level, got to know some of their program schedules. By the time I was old enough to drive--and therefore old enough to take girls out--I was able to find without looking too closely any number of remote American stations. It was more than once that a date stared with incredulity as, after expressing a desire to stop the car in a lonely area to listen to the radio, I did just that. And only that. In university, however, I gradually got separated from the radio. I suspect that the university environment itself provided the worldly contact that the radio once had Supplied me with. Whatever the case, I did stop listening to it. It wasn't until I finished schooling an moved home to go to work that I had the aforementioned rediscovery. I now wake up to the radio, and am lulled to sleep by it. In between, I grab every opportunity I have to tune into stations from far off places. When the sun goes down, I'm transformed into a Curious nocturnal creature, driven from my home to my car by the promise of an all night talk show from Boston, or an unending news broadcast from Philiadelphia. Someone once asked me how muck time I eee listening to the radio. I was unable to ive an answer in minutes or hours. I suppose the best Way to guage the length of time is to calculate it in terms of corresponding ac- livities. In that case, I guess it's about a pack a day's worth.