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Lethbridge Herald, The (Newspaper) - September 13, 1973, Lethbridge, Alberta Thursday, Sopttmbtr 13, 1973 THE LETHBRIOQE HERALD S The Republic of Ireland is people A quotation game By Peter Hunt, local writer There used to be an old educational game which required listeners to recognize the author of a particular passage from acquain- tance with his style. Another variation on this interesting exercise is to ask the audience to give the approximate date of a passage from knowledge of a period. Here are some quotations from a writer on education. See whether you, dear readers, can recognize the time, place and author. Clues will appear as we progress. Here goes. "We are too fond of clapping ourselves on the back because we live in modern times, and we preen ourselves quite ridiculously (and unneccesarilyi on our modern progress. There is, of course, such a thing as modern progress, but it has been won at how great a cost' How many precious things have we flung from us to lighten ourselves for that race'" "And all the problems with which we strive (I mean all the really important problems) were long ago solved by our ancestors, only their solutions have been forgotten. There have been states in which the rich did not grind the poor, although there are no such states now: there have been free, self-governing democracies, although there are few such democracies now; there have been rich and beautiful social organizations, with an art and culture and a religion in every man's house, though for such a thing today we have to search out some sequestered people living by a desolate seashore or in a high forgotten valley among lonely hamlet of lar-Connacht or a village in the Austrian Alps." Modern education systems are elaborate pieces of machinery devised by highly-salaried of- ficials for the purpose of turning out citizens according to certain approved patterns. The modern school is a state-controlled institution which produces articles necessary to the progress, well-being and defence of the state. We speak of the the 'cheapness' and the 'up-to-dateness' of an education system just as we speak of the the 'cheapness' and the 'up-to-dateness' of a system of manufacturing coal gas We shall soon reach a stage when we shall speak of the the and the 'up-to- dateness' of our systems of soul-saving. We shall hear it said 'Salvation is very cheap in England' or 'The Germans are wonderfully efficient in prayer' or 'Gee, it takes a New York parson to hustle ginks into Heaven "The words which the old Irish employed when they spoke of education show that they had gripped the very heart of the problem To the old Irish the teacher was aite, the pupil was the system was aiteeachas, 'fosterage.' Fosterage implies a foster-father or foster- mother a person as its centre and in- spiration rather than a code of rules.' "No education can start with a Nego, any more than a religion can. Everything that even pretends to be true begins with its Credo. It is obvious that the savage who says 'I believe in mumbo-jumbo is nearer to true religion than the philosopher who says 'I deny God and the spiritual in man.' Now to teach a child to deny is the greatest crime a man or a state can commit. Certain schools in Ireland teach children to deny their religion; nearly all the schools in Ireland teach children to deny their nation. 'I deny the spirituality of my nation, I deny the lineage of my blood; I deny my rights and responsibilities.' This Nego is their Credo, this evil their good." There it is. Perhaps in the first 10 lines or so the piece could have come from Chester- ton, Belloc or even George Grant of Canada. Parts of it appear to come from the pen of Illich, and, for anyone reading widely in North American critique, it may seem like something written yesterday Of course, the clues are there. The mention of Ireland is vital, and the comments seem from the past, or do they7 How the wheel comes full-circle! Perhaps much of what is said here about Ireland is about to reappear. The piece is from Padraig Pearse's book The Murder Machine, published in 1913, just three years before the rising of 1916 Eminent Gaelic scholar, poet, mystic and revolutionary, Pearse faced the firing squad without trial. He was a teacher who died for truth and freedom Long before our time, in which so-called progress, with all its despoliation and mis- erable destruction of the good, the true and the beautiful, is now questioned widely by thinking people everywhere, Pearse saw the union of education and politics under an oppressive regime. He knew that the people were being brain-washed by the state and by those whom the state served. He accented community, smallness, parental rights- and fostering of the good in children. Like all prophets, he was stoned for his trouble; yes, stoned even now long after his heroic work and death for his country, by the words of those who ohut their ears to unwelcome truths, even in the Republic he made possible. ANDY RUSSELL There floats my stick WATERTON LAKES PARK A couple of evenings ago I was standing by one of Alber- ta's wild rivers, a magnificent stream full ot mystery and beauty, strong in its current and still reasonably pure in its waters, thanks to a minimum ot numan intrusion along its wilderness source It winds down between the hills, blue and silver in the sun, alternating white water with fast slick runs and deep pools. Beyond the hills, the Rockies rise, tall and craggy against the sky, their expressions strong in profile, a character enduring throughout millemums of time since the earth's crust split to heave them slowly up towards the blue vault overhead. For two hours I had been fishing, standing thigh deep in the river and enjoying the strong tugging of its current against my medicine to wipe away the tension of long hours at the typewriter and a phone's insistent jingling. For me there are few things so satisfying as plying a finely balanced flyrod and line, presenting a hand- dressed fly to feeding trout And while a full creel has no part in the witchery, mine hung comfortably heavy on my ficient promise for a delicious breakfast when the sun rose again For the fishing had only been a part of this evening. There were signs of mink and beaver along the edge of the sandbars. Elk, moose and deer tracks showed here and there, and in one place, the big pug marks of a bear were printed deep in the mud by a spring. Earlier in the evening while the sun was still up, still warm after a long hot day, I had climbed down a steep bank along a little trail. It led me through a pocket filled with cherry brush higher than my head close by the river As I made my way into it through a patch of fireweed, the leaves were noisy in a breeze. Then there was a sudden explosive snort and a great crash, as a huge whitetail buck leapt into flight from his bed, so .close I could have touched him with the tip of my rod. My thoughts had been somewhere else and the suddenness made my pulse thump a bit, but doubtless less than his from having me almost walk on his tail. A bit later as the cooled, a doe showed up across the river I watched her brousing delicately among some saskatoon bushes, alternating choosy nibbles of leaves and twigs with enthusiastic mouthfulls of luscious ripe fruit As the sun dipped down onto the tar rim of the mountains to the northwest, throwing long shadows of trees and prommtones along its banks across the river, I was standing well out in a pool shooting my line upstream, dropping a tiny fly to drift in an eddy stirred by some big submerged rocks There it was dancing, when the sudden kerplop and splash of a big beaver bringing his tail down hard on the water as prelude to a dive, sounded behind me. I swung my head to look, letting the fly drift unattended and missed the strike of a good trout. The beaver surfaced to swim toward me, full of curiousity with his whiskers working like an animated moustache on each side of his face as he tried to get my scent My schuckle triggered another great tail-smacking dive scattering water in all directions. My attention to fishing had been broken, but such is a love affair with a beautiful river, and now I stood contemplating it full of wonder at all it has known and seen for the long reaches of time, ages before I was even a gleam in my father's eye. It was to places like this the first white men came, some of the old freetrappers adventuring in search of beaver They may have stood here braving the dangers of wrathful Blackfeet just for the privilege of looking at new territory and tak-' ing some skins. They hadseenthe ancestors of my beaver and the other things, and had their spirits lifted by the sight of a flaming sunset over the mountains. For a few moments the shadows of old Bill Williams, John Fitzgerald, Joe Crane and others stood close, contemplating the river too, leaning on their long guns, redolent in their fringed buckskins smoked by a thousand campfires. A peeled beaver stick floated by in the lazy current and I tried to recall something read or heard long ago. An owl suddenly broke the silence across the river "Whoo? Whoo? it asked as though in question of my thought. Then I remembered and answered, "None other than old Bill Williams, of course! When something pleased him or he liked a place, he would say, 'Thar my stick And come to think of it, there my stick floats too Living dangerously By Doug Walker Isobel Mc-Nair was living dangerously on the poll course the other day when she failed to show proper deference for the feelings of her boss. Mr Fern Bouchard Shi1 wiis m ;i foursome following the struggling ihn-csonic of Bouchard. Rac and Wiilkor II was b.ul enough when Isobel laugh- ed as Fern dubbed his first tee shot but almost moxcuseablc when she rubbed it in on Two or (liree subsequent miscues on her boss' p.irl How could she have worked for Fein all this time and nol realized that he takes golf soi louslv and is distressed when his driver goes sour on him' Louis Burke, a teacher at Catholic Central High School in Lethbridge, has recent- ly returned from a year of study in Dublin. In a series of three articles, beginning today and to be continued on Tuesday and Thursday next week, he gives his views on the state of affairs in The Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland and The United Kingdom. In many ways the people ol Southern Ireland have grown fat and soft. From the political martyrs' viewpoint, this is a trend which will con- tinue because Guinness is still the best, the music still lively, the food plentiful and there is money in every pocket. Only the hungry and deprived are a people fodder for revolution. But the notion that those ol the Irish Republic could not care less about a unified Ireland is quite wrong. To re- ject this would be to cut away Ireland's soul, one centuries old and steeped in anger and blood. An Ireland in one piece is and has been the aspiration of Irish men and women, at home and abroad, for a very long time. Ireland raped and left reel- ing by the "British Bully" fires the imaginations of millions, many of whom both past and present were merely pseudo-Irish out to hack their nitches in history. But the British Bully never raped Ireland at all. English soldiers attacked Irish girls, flesh-and- blood creatures. They shipped to Australia, the West Indies and elsewhere fathers, brothers and other family members; again flesh-and- blood people. Ireland is people, not a cross on the clouds' This has come home to the nationalists of the Irish Republic today. All of them want the nation one, but the great majority rule out bloodshed, especially their own blood. In recent years, the Republic of Ireland has closed the gap between itself and the British-supported economy of the Six Counties. They have jobs, money, position and above all, they have power. In the last 50 years, those who rose to do good for Ireland remained to do much better for themselves and their Cosgraves, the de Valeras, the Lynchs and so many others in ever- expanding friendly circles. Like ice crystals from the sky on a chilled prairie winter's night, crumbs of wealth lie scattered on every doorstep in Southern Ireland. People have cars, houses they call their own, television to entertain them, pubs to sing their rebel ballads in and numb their brains to what some call their "patriotic duty." For the first time in centuries, the people of Southern Ireland have something to lose and today, they simply refuse even to risk that possibility. They know, moreover, the mineral potential of their mis- ty island home. It has great quantities of lead zinc, silver, silver, copper and other minerals, and it has rightful claim to oceans of gas and oil beneath the continental shelf facing the Atlantic. Not only that, but the agricultural future of the country is staggering Nor do the seas around its shores hold any less potential. Thus has the fire of revolu- tion in the Irish Republic been extinguished over the last 20 years. The Irish army and police do not help the Irish Republican Army in the six counties; they have too much at stake. Nor do they hinder them too much; they must keep their own souls quiet But in recent years, those in power in the Irish Republic have discovered new weapons Political pressures are applied against the British in various places Europe, America and elsewhere By Louis Burke, Local Writer These pressures do pay off directly, by forcing London to act positively like the Whitelaw regime and the Council of Ireland and in- directly, by tarnishing more the myth of British justice, the world hears so much about The Irish, loquacious by nature, use the print and electronic media to excellent effect. Already, southern politicians ignore the border and ride the trains to Belfast as if going to Cork city. Fitzgerald, minister of foreign affairs, has twice been to Belfast without the invi- tation from anyone He has walked the streets, talked to common people, called on nobody who was anybody, in- eluding Whitelaw, hopped the 5 30 p m Express and ate dinner those nights back in his Dublin home Six years ago, Ireland developed into a horse race with the prize unknown, the course littered with traps, all covered, and four old nags at the starting gate Dublin, the northern nationalists, the unionists and a knacker's body named London. This race also started on what was a pitch- black night for all interested parties Besides that no one knew how long the course was or where exactly the winning Books in post stood The wretched knacker's body, London, has fallen behind at this stage, but the other three are still neck and neck, flogging their horses to death. Yet the darkness has lifted slightly. The length of the course, however, is still an unknown and the winning post may be a brick wall into which the winner may crash headlong But many things in Ireland are now certain The Ireland of the last 50 years is gone forever. The Ireland of high political romance after which martyrs slobbered is now no worth a bomb, a bullet, or a drop of blood. Ireland is people as it always was and ever will be. Poor people seeking jobs for mm mm themselves and education for their children. Rich people, no longer English, holding on to power and creating status for their friends and families. Middle class people concerned about their material wealth and unable to rise above it. Boys and girls, students and truck drivers, teachers and tinkers, sailors and soldiers, the rich and the poor, the ugly and beautiful, the wise and the foolish, saint and sinner, the drunk, the sick and the sober. Ireland is all these and these are people. Ireland is nothing else! Tomorrow's Ireland belongs to the unknown and un- knowable, one thing excepted it will be unrecognizable in 'the light of the past and the present. brief Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression" by Erma Bombeck (Doubleday, 162 Familv life is the main theme of this collection of Knna Bombeck's syndicated columns Her humorous treat- ment ol all sorts of familiar things will delight those who not previously en- countered this popular writer It's the kind of book that can he picked up and nibbled at in moments when a laugh is needed Anyone sampling this book will wish The Herald could find room for her regular offerings DOUG WALKER 1C 1973 by NEA In, "Well, did you have a tough day at the construc- tion site whistling at pretty AT REGULAR PRICES Carlsberg has long been the world's most exported Lager beer. Now Carlsberg, this glorious beer of Copenhagen, is brewed right here in Alberta. And because it's now brewed here, you can enjoy Carlsberg at regular prices. Carlsberg brewed with all the skill and tradition of Denmark to the taste of Canadian beer drinkers. Discover Carlsberg for yourself. Canadian Breweries Alberta Ltd. COPENHAGEN city of beautiful towers I ;