WHITBY FREE PRESS, WEDNESDAY. NOVEMBER 13. 9M PAGE 5 "I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every forn of tyranny over the mind of man." - Thomas Jefferson Sini am THE Ii CROVS NEST by Michael Knell At 11 a.m. Monday morning I was reminded of the price of liberty. I saw it on the faces of about 60 old soldiers who no longer wear the uniform but still believe in God, Queen, Country. They stood rigidly at attention and simply stared at the memorial, in whose simple granite is recorded for all time the names of the Honored Dead. But who really knows what was on their minds? The only thing they could have thought about, the rest of us couldn't understand. Those of my generation (including me) can never really comprehend what these men did and experien- ced. They are bound together in a way even those of us who share membership in their fraternal organization cannot understand. Few of them served in the same unit, in the same place or at the same time yet they share a brotherhood that few will ever know. They share common experiences, common hardships, common loses, common joys, common pride and common sorrow. That makes them unique. That makes them special. For those who have not yet realized of who I speak, they are the men and women of Branch 112of the Royal Canadian Legion. A special group of people. When I was standing outside the Cenotaph that cold, crisp, sunny morning I thought about a crack someone made to me a few weeks ago. Paraphrased, the remark went something like this: "The Legion? That's nothing but a watering hole for a bunch of old drunks!" That came from someone about my age, perhaps a few years older. But when I saw them parade three ranks deep, spines erect, eyes clear, chest out supporting medal and honors I knew that remark was just so much - well, you know. These people know something that I will riever completely understand. They know the pride of liberty. Samuel Adams once remarked that "God grants liberty to those who love it and are willing to defend it." They know what he was talking about. They paid the price and their comrades lying dead and buried on foreign soil paid the ultimate price. Realizing these things, I became angry at every person who ever made that crack. Because while they aren't soldiers anymore, they still serve their com- munity. I didn't realize until I joined the Legion that they do more than provide a cheap bar for ex-servicemen. They put something back into the community, something valuable. Themselves. It's not the busaries, the sports teams they sponsor the widows they help, the Christmas promises they keep. The most important thing they give this community is a memory. So long as one veteran parades in a Legion uniform on Nov. 11, the community will continue to be reminded that the price we pay for our freedom is the blood of our fathers, brothers, husbands and sons. And that is a good thing to remember. If we forget the lesson that Nov. il teaches us, we will become complacent about the peace of the world. So long as Remembrance Day is honored, we know that we have something precious and irreplacable to lose should war break out again. So, their good works are not really, despite the fact that they are desparately needed, the most important contribution to the community they make. Their very existance is what's im- portant. I was delighted to see so many children at Monday's service. There was a time when we neglected to tell our children about the significance of Nov. 11. Children didn't participate in Cenotaph services for quite some time. Now, I'm not trying to be morbid or anything like that, but participating in act of remem- brance with those veterans is probably one of the greatest learning experiences we can give our cildren. It's the only way we have to show that men actually fought and died for the freedom they now enjoy and can lose if they are not aware of the fact that, at times nations and people have had to fight and die for that freedom. So the next time you see a member of the Legion, remember he deserves your respect. He is an ordinary man who survived an extra-ordinary experience. THE LOSS OF A FRIEND It is with a heavy heart that I report and mourn the passing of Ruth Coles, who until a few months ago wrote a weekly column entitled "Between You and Me" in the Whitby Free Press. I first met Ruth six years ago when I first came to this newspaper and was always delighted by her. She was witty, charming, opinionated and a lot of fun. Her zest for life took an almost vertical upswing when she married Robin Coles a few years ago. He is her total complement. A dignified, studious man, sure of himself with an immense lnterest in everything and everyone. For the duration of the marriage, Ruth was so dotty about Robin as a teenager is about her "Johnny Angel". She was as giddy as a schoolgirl. And it showed. In fact, she often referred to him as "my Robin". Ruth was not a journalist. But she tried hard and she had one particular ad- vantage. She loved this town. Its people, its everything. Whitby was home and she loved to talk about it, for it and to it. I remember a time when she went on vacation and didn't submit a column. The afternoon the paper hit the streets I had telephone calls from an angry dozen or so senior citizens wbo demanded ta know why I fired Ruth. It took a great deal of talking and assuring before they partially accepted the fact that I hadn't fired her at all, she was on holiday. Tothis day, I'm very happy that Ruth submitted a column the following week. For if she hadn't - they might have bur- ned me at the stake or some such. She was a good friend and a decent, and just human being. I'm proud to have known her and honored to have called her friend. I shall miss her very much. And I think I'm safe in saying that many other people feel the same way. WITH OUR FEET UP By Bill Swan This column will not make me many friends. In fact, you may be angry enough at me before you get to the end to crumple this paper into a little ball and turn it into a football. Especially if you buy lottery tickets once in a while, you will not like what follows. If you buy lottery tickets all the time, you will hate me. This is because, like many others who have pur- chased lottery tickets, I have finally given it up. And like a reformed smoker - I am that, too - reformed gamblers are nothing if not self-righteous. The worst thing about lottery tickets is the an- ticipation. Back when I used to plunk my dollar down for a Wintario ticket, I would spend the next few days in eager hopes. The money was spent several times over. Ah, the dreams! All, alas, brought down to earth each Thursday with the drawing of the numbers. Then followed the disappointment, as though we really had a hope of winning. That's the rub. The mathematics of it, which the rational mind can calculate, can be overwhelmed by the shear magnitude of hope. On the surface, paying $1 for a ticket which stands you at least a hope of winning up to $200,000 must be a bargain. It isn't that different from tossing a coin - heads you win, tails I win. Only the guy doing the coin tossing - or in this case, the number drawing, is the lottery cor- poration. And of course, just like a church bingo, we expect the house to take a bit off the top. All for good causes, naturally. So we pay the buck, wait, and then swallow the disappointment for another week. And think, sometimes: what are the odds, really? Well, if you and I toss a coin, you will win half the time. The other half of the time I will win. The odds are, after several days of coin tossing, we will end up even. If six people sit down and toss an ordinary six- sided cube with dots on each face (or a die: in pairs, called dice) - then each person will have her/his number come up once every six throws. With us so far? Six people, each wins once every six throws. Of course, that illustration depends on the house not taking a cut on each throw. So in reality, with the die you would win once every six turns, and then break even except for the cut that goes to the house. In lotteries, that cut can be up to one-half. In the example with the die, you would win only half of what you paid. No bargain. Lotteries are like the dice, too, though, only this time the die bas say a million sides. (If a million tickets are sold). This means that, as in Wintario, you have a chance of winning once very million times. That, translated into English, means that if you buy a Wintario ticket once every week, you stand even chances of winning once every million weeks. Or once every 20,000 years. Actually, the odds are worse than that. Those little letters on each ticket indicate that several series are sold for each draw, with up to a million in each series available. In addition, the lottery corporation takes its profits, which is nice for the recipients of Wintario largess but cuts into your winnings, don't you know? Add those two facts together and you have the real odds: buy a ticket every week and you have even odds of winning the grand prize once every 50,000 years. Or so. Note that you aren't guaranteed a win that often. You just have even odds. Mathematics like that is why lotteries have been called a tax on fools. 10 1 . m )"~ OUR A,1Nr,'- FqI4'E -f57LAl?P, -4R//,4 y / sU6'cÊeÂ7