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_4 NORSHORE SENTINEL Thursday, January 12, 1961 EDITORILITES Nipigon is still waiting for the Dept, of Highways to recognize the fact that the highway intersection at the Nipigon Cutoff coming from the West is in very bad need of better lighting. How long will this wait continue? Until the next accident? There is a crying need for better recreational facilities and recreational director in Nipigon. Aside from the arena there is no such thing as a ’recreational facility', especially for the early-teeners. Schreiber, at the moment, is studying plans to co-ordinate all their recreational and sports activities under one group which could plan out a proper program. Nipigon might well contact the community programs branch, dept, of Education and find out more about the plan. A recent inquest over the death of a Nipigon man on the streets of Nipigon pointed out one glaring omission in directive signs for motorists. Nowhere, we repeat nowhere, in town is there a sign that designated the proper speed limitations. There are no signs coming in off the highway, no signs on Front street, no signs anywhere. It would be interesting to see this brought up as a test case should anyone be arrested for speeding in town. The recent news that Dorion-Hurkett would have phone service by spring must have been glad news for residents of the area, especially the women. No more trudging down the road to visit ’Mabel' for coffee. No more long drives in the car to visit ’momma' or the distant neighbors. Now it will just take the lift of a receiver and the conversation pot starts to boil. And that may be the only ’pot* to boil during the day fellows so it might be wise right now to start practicing the culinary arts...or go hungry! You only hear of the crimes and troubles that happen in a town. You never hear of the hours and hours of preventive work your police, ministers and priests are doing every day. Joe Smith is beating up his wife. Instead of playing ostrich about it as they could do, they visit Joe, seek out the trouble and make it plain that this has to stop. Joe Jones has a troublesome teenager. They talk with the boy, man-to-man. Joe Brown has a drink problem. They try to to straighten things out and help him. Yes, your police, your ministers and priests can and do prevent crimes and troubles every day. It's just as much their job as it is for the police to arrest or the minister to preach. SPORT AND THE NATION World sports competitions are one thing. Athletics at home as a means of raising the nation's level of physical fitness are something else again. Those who feel it’s a national calamity when the nation’s best prove not good enough in international competition might study the report recently issued of an independent committee which for three years has been examining the whole position of sport in the United Kingdom. ”In the field of international sport,” it says, ’’feelings about national prestige should be kept within reason.” Sure, the British like to win, just as Canadians or Americans or Russians do. But the British are much more concerned about having a nation of physically fit citizens than they are about winning this or that international title-although they win their share. Thus, the establishment of a sports development council is the main recommendation of the Wolfenden committee on sport. Established in October, 1957, by the central council of physical recreation, the committee since then has examined oral and written evidence from practically every organization concerned with sport and outdoor activities in Britain. The committee recommends an annual government contribution of £5,000,000 to such a sports development council, to be shared among the composite bodiesâ€"such as the British Olympic Association, the Central Council of Physical Recreation and the National Playing Fields Associationâ€"and individual national associations concerned with physical recreation. It suggests in addition that municipal authorities and educational authorities should be empowered to spend annually £5,000,000 over and above existing limits on capital expenditures, for the specific purpose of sports facilities. Facilities are particularly needed for indoor games and sports. Such a program might not bring any immediate increase in the harvest of international medals. But it could produce a great many more physically fit citizens. SUGAR 'N' SPICE By BILL SMILEY We old air force types are resting easier these nights, secure in the knowledge that the great traditions we helped to establish are in safe hands. I’ve felt this way since I read in the papers the other day about the new pamphlet for air force personnel. Entitled ’A Guide to Social Recreation in the Royal Canadian Air Force, it is a 118-page document. They quoted only a few passages from it, in the newspaper stories. But these were enough to convince me that life in the air force these days is just as exciting as ever, and a whole lot more fun. The pamphlet is designed to help the airman get acquainted, be accepted socially, and lose his feeling of personal insignificance. To bring this about,, and help him feel that he is one of the gang, the booklet suggests some fascinating games that can be played at RCAF station parties. Most of these ice-breakers seem to be played on your knees. That’s as good a method as any of abolishing stiffness and reserve, and levelling differences in rank. Here’s one of them. It’s called Rabbit. ’’All kneel on the floor in a circle. The leader asks each one in turn if he knows how to play rabbit. When they admit they do not, he rises and says: ’Well, I guess we can’t play it then, no one knows how.”’ That would certainly establish an informal, friendly attitude at any party. Here’s another. ’’All are asked to kneel in a circle to be initiated into the order of Siam. They are requested to repeat after the leader the oath of allegiance: ’Owa Tagoo Siam'. They say it slowly at first, then rapidly. One by one they realize that they are saying ’O what a goose I am’.” Hey wouldn’t their faces be red? Just one more sample. ’’All players are told to get in a crouch position on the floor with their heads down. They are told to repeat after the leader, line by line: ’With all my heart; with all my mind; I know that I: stick out behind’.” Imagine the roars of laughter, the gay camaraderie this one would produce. All I can say is that it makes me sick with envy. We sure didn’t have any fun like that when I was in the air force. Night after night we’d just sit around the mess and drink beer and argue. Heck, sometimes we felt so socially insecure we’d have to get right out of the mess and cycle five miles through the blackout to a pub so we could get into a lively game of shove ha’penny. Oh, we did have a few old games that might crop up once in a while at a station party. But they were pretty effeminate, badly organized efforts, compared to Rabbit, for example. We did have one, though, that was played on hands and knees, like these new ones. Two large, preferably thick-headed young pilots were chosen. Each was given a weapon, consisting of newspapers or magazines, tightly rolled. They were blindfolded. Then on hands and knees, they stalked each other. Idea was to find your opponent and club him unconscious. First to draw blood was the winner, and the loser had to buy a round for all hands. Another of our simple little games was something like that one they play at the women’s institute, called Sing, Say or Pay, We’d all stand in a circle. Each in turn had to tell a story, sing a song, or have his trousers removed and a pint of cold ale poured over that part of his anatomy between navel and knees. This always led to some good natured, boyish scuffling, in which one type lost two front teeth and another got a warped nose, at one party I remember. Then there was Boomerang. This was played only when most of the players were leaving first thing in the morning for a new station. First, you gathered all the plates and saucers from the dining room. Two teams were picked, and each retired hastily behind a barricade consisting of the piano or a large table turned on its side. Then you skimmed a plate every time one of the opposing team stuck his head up. You’d get one right back at you, hence the name Boomerang. This, was a jolly, cheerful game, designed not only to break down the traditional reserve of the fighter pilot, but also every window in the place. And of course there was Mess Rugger. This was a high-spirited game in which any number could take part. Having to gallop over the chesterfields and around the tables made it more interesting. The smallest pilot in the mess was used as a ball, and the game ended when somebody was successful in drop-kicking him over the bar. I know that sounds like pretty anemic stuff compared to the red-blooded virility of Owa Tagoo Siam, but it wasn’t our fault that we were born 20 years too soon.