Perspectives with Rev. George Frey

The town of Goderich in western Ontario has found an innovative, yet old-school way to fix the doctor shortage in their community. It could be one that could be adopted in South Dundas: more recreation. […]

Who will save the South Dundas murals? At this point, three of the murals, all in Morrisburg, are at the end of their lifespan. The Township of South Dundas is responsible for either taking them down and refinishing the walls beneath OR making a fresh start and hiring someone to redo them.

From what I’ve heard so far, the second option doesn’t appear to be under consideration. Rather, it would appear that hope has been laid at the feet of residents who might consider stepping forward as ‘champions’… which, as I already said, has not yet happened and may not happen at all. Let’s face it, not everyone has $10,000 and change lying around for donation toward commissioning a replacement mural. (I’m lucky when I have $10 lying around that hasn’t already been spoken for…!)

Getting down to the ‘nitty gritty’… Why is saving the South Dundas murals important? Because they’re unique and they’re beautiful. They each depict a different part of the history of South Dundas. They generate interest from outsiders… perhaps even draw people into our township. I think they’re an asset to each of our communities within South Dundas and, as such, should be funded by and cared for by… our township. 

As for where the money would come from in the South Dundas budget… I don’t know, but I’m certain that it’s doable. These murals showcase our township… the beauty that surrounds South Dundas… the history… the story. Perhaps the budget for economic development should be raised to encompass the murals… for the probability that they serve to entice visitors to our area… visitors who shop here, eat here, stay here for the night… or for visitors who may decide to put down roots and set up shop in South Dundas.

Adding to that thought, should someone with power… council maybe… decide that murals are to remain in South Dundas indefinitely, perhaps there is an argument to be made for regular maintenance and upkeep, to preserve these murals for as long as possible. 

And, if I haven’t gone too far already, might I make another suggestion… why not add more murals? Not too many, just a few… maybe some with scenes from our recent history. (FYI: I hope to never see any murals with wind turbines in them!)   S. C.

[…]

Actual snow this winter has brought happy skiers swarming to area slopes and chalets. These enthusiasts do not include me.

Frankly, I still experience flashbacks of my one and only attempt at skiing. I was told it would be memorable. It was.

Our destination was the TNT Lodge in Michigan (motto: Explode on to the Slopes! In my case, an unfortunate bit of foreshadowing). 

Already a little edgy in my rented skis, boots and poles, I came out on the main hill, crisp and snowy, fringed at the bottom with scrub trees and bush. I looked at this winter vista and made my first important discovery: I hate heights. 

My next determination: no way am I going down this precipice strapped to two flimsy boards.

But the other girls had already headed out. And they’d left me with the rather cryptic comment, “You’ll be fine. Just watch out for the moguls.”

There I was, pondering why a group of business tycoons out for an afternoon ski should be of concern to me, when I spotted it: The Bunny Hill.

Very low incline, very short distance, tow rope at knee level. I struggled over, and got into the line. Eventually it occurred to me that my fellow Bunny Hill skiers were looking at me oddly. Their average age appeared to be seven. And it didn’t help my credibility that I fell several times. Unfortunately, my red mittens even came off and travelled up the tow rope alone, giving the impression that a pint sized invisible man was enjoying a day on the slopes.

My friends found me on the BH several hours later and insisted that I try one run on the ‘real’ hill before we left. I knew it was a mistake the instant I pushed off. I hit light speed. 

The world became a blur. All I could do was scream “Look out! Look out!” as I caught fleeting glimpses of people in my path leaping like fleas madly in all directions. 

At one point, I realized that many of them were shouting the words “Snow plow! Snow plow!” Under the circumstances, however, I failed to understand why they would be warning me to watch for a large slow moving vehicle with flashing blue lights.

One man in bright orange was, I recall, a tad slow getting out of my way. I ran over his skis.

Ahead, at the base of the hill was the packed line up for the T-Bar. People were standing stock still, simply staring as the Gibb train wreck hurtled toward them.

Then at the last minute, the line  miraculously parted like the Red Sea, and I shot through and into the bush.

I can to rest over a small frozen creek. It was really quite peaceful. I thought I’d just stay there.

I heard the swish of skis. The man in orange came up beside me. Now that I was no longer moving at Mach 3, I could read the large badge fastened to his jacket: Ski Patrol. Sigh.

Have fun on the slopes, folks. I won’t be joining you.

[…]