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Page 4, Terrace Bay-Schreiber News, Wednesday, March 14, 1984 The Terrace Bay-Schreiber News is published every Wednesday by: Laurentian Publishing Co. Ltd., Box 579, Terrace Bay, Ontario. POT 2W0. Telephone: (807) 825-3747. opinton EDITOR AND MANAGER...................2.0220e ee eee Karen E. Park EDITORIAL ASSISTANT ..........-......... 2. cee eee Lynne Badger ADVERTISING SALES............................00005. Sharon Mark PRODUCTION MANAGER.............................05. Mary Melo DEADLINE: Friday NOON Subscription rates: $12.00 per annum (local); $18.00 There are only TWO kinds of people... As my mother has repeatedly told me time and time again ... "'There's only two kinds of people in this here world ... those who are Irish - and those taking pills to become!' : I have yet to doubt her expert advice. And it's not just because I happe to be of the lucky Irish who have brought such wonderment and spice to Canada. It's because the Irish have their own brand of heritage - one to be proud of. i : Who else would believe in Leprechauns, four-leaf clovers and green beer. Who else would wear large, funny hats that bring good luck and merriment. Who else would be caught dead being seen with "Kiss me ... I'm Irish" buttons pinned all over their bodies? An Irishman would .. and he would be proud doing it! As parties celebrating Ireland's Patron Saint, St. Patrick, occur in many of the local bars, restaurants and other social functions, it seems an appropriate time to gather the origins of the now famed St. Patrick. According to Roman Catholic authorities, St. Patrick was born in the year 387, in Kilpatrick, Scotland. Taken from his home at the young age of 16 by Irish marauders (rogues), he was sold into slavery. Following six years of captivity, he escaped to England where he would spend the next 18 years preparing to devote the remainder of his life to religious work. In 433, he was commissioned by Pope Celestine to carry on his work in Ireland. And it was there he would spend the rest of his life - "teaching, building churches, and according to Church lore, performing miracles. He died on March 17th in the year of 493 while held in captivity by the Druids. On his burial shroud now stands the Cathedral of Down. Probably the most well-known legend surrounding St. Patrick recounts how he miraculously drove vermin and snakes from Irish soil by banging on a drum. According to folklore to this day, because of St. Patrick, the land is still free of such critters. It was on St. Patrick's dying day that he bid his friends not to sorrow for his passing, but instead to celebrate his "comfortable exit." This is still a policy with many "good Irishmen" and is commonly known as an Irish wake, where a party is given in honour of the deceased. St. Patrick's final request to his friends was that each take a drink to.ease the pain of his death. And, henceforth, was born the tradition of taking a drink on this day. Yes, St. Patrick's Day is indeed a special day. It allows for a celebration to be held, filled with magic and goodwill, and gives an ideal opportunity to be. people who are Irish (or those wishing they were) to eat, drink and be merry. While you are toasting those wonderful Irishmen of the past, present and future, please feel free to use one of my favourite toasts. They are as follows: : "*St. Patrick was a gentleman, who through strategy and stealth, : drove all the snakes from Ireland. Here's toasting to his health - but not too many toastings lest you lose yourself and then forget the good St. Patrick and see all those snakes again. se ow we ea a oe May the grass grow long on the road to Hell, for want of use. eeeeeneene Here's to you, as good as you are. Here's to me, as bad as I am. As good as you are and as bad as I am, I'm as good as you are, as bad as I am. eeeenenes May the roof above us never fall in, and may we friends gathered below, never fall out. eeeeeenes HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!! Arthur Black per annum (out-of-town). Second Class Mail Registration No. 0867. &CNA. ancho re Games Teenagers Play by REV. B.M. FELLINGER Life can hurt. Life can throw some awful curves at a person. Life can even be tiresome. It can be, but it doesn't have to be. As I look around, I see so many young people in our communities who are wondering about life. About meaning and purpose to existence. I see hurting looks, inquiring looks, bitter looks, even hating looks. But most of all I see an emptiness inside that I once knew myself. So often I see young people who are wearing masks. It's not always young people either, sometimes adults are just as guilty. But the mask wearing seems to start in adolescence. Teenagers act one way with one group of friends, different with another group, and different again with parents. It's all done so they will be accepted, instead of ridiculed. Yet for ail their acting tough and trying to be cool, they're still empty inside. They know what they're doing, but they're afraid to really just be themselves. Afraid no one will like them if they find out what they're really like. Afraid that if they don't live up to so many different people's expectations of them they won't be accepted. Adolescence is often a very insecure time for a teen-ager. One of the most important things at that time is to be accepted by peers. So important, that -often teens act and pretend to be something or someone they're not. Sometimes this pretending can go to extremes and have very serious and damaging consequences. I know because I was there. Yet I found someone who accepted me just the way I was. If every hair wasn't exactly in place, it didn't matter. If my clothes weren't quite with it, it didn't matter. If I really messed things up or acted like a jerk forgiveness was there. If I wanted to cry over the fact that my parents were getting divorced, I could let my emotions out and not feel embarrassed about it. There was understanding. I found I could be myself - with all my faults, all my hang-ups, all my problems. I could be myself and I was loved and accepted just the way I was. I was told, "Don't worry, we'll work on it together."' : I found I didn't have to put on any acts or wear any masks and pretend I was something I wasn't. I could be myself and even like who I was. The love and acceptance of this person was always there. In fact it was almost as if knowing this person gave me back more of myself. It was as if I'd regained something I'd lost in my childhood, when I didn't have to wear any masks. This Person I met promised He'd never leave me - and He never has. I've simply grown to know and love Him even more, than when I first met Him. His Name is Jesus. You can know Him too. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and oe, = door, I will come into him and live with him, and he with me." €v. I:LU. This Week's Chuckle Money has wings and most of us see only the tail feathers! Bad luck days Anyone out there remember Joe Btfsplk? He was the wizened little codger with the unpronounceable last name who stalked the frames of Li'] Abner, a cartoon strip that used to be the first thing everyone read in the newspaper. Joe B. was not a popular fellow among the denizens of Dogpatch. They'd run the other way when they saw him coming. That's because Joe was bad news. A little black cloud hovered over his head and followed him wherever he went. Joe and his personal cloud brought bad luck to anyone they met. Always. z : If Joe dropped in, anybody knew that within minutes the roof would leak, the cow would drop dead and the eldest son would run off with Lena the Hyena (the 'ugliest woman in Lower Slobo- via). Reason I bring up poor ol' Joe is that I've got the distinct feeling 'he was dogging my tracks one day last week. I knew it wasn't going to be a great day when I walked out the front door in the morning | and beheld my ancient jalopy listing precariously to starboard. looking for all the world like The Lusitania just before it slipped beneath the waves. A flat, of course. Ah well, heft the trunk open, scrabble around for the jack and the tire wrench; wrestle the spare time out on to the ground and discover ... Flat Number Two. Some time during the past several months, my spare tire had quietly expired and gone limp in my trunk. I realized the task was now well beyond my limited mechanical expertise. I bummed a ride to work, dropping off my spare for resuscitation at the local garage. That night, I bummed another ride home; picking up my tire on the way. When I got home, I had a fit of inspiration. I decided to ask the Ontario Motor League to send a man over to change the tire. I fixed myself a rum and egg nog and sat down to watch the operation through my living room window. OML man came, whipped-off the flat, spun my spare on ... then stopped and shook his head. I ran out in my slippers to find out the latest bad news. "Rim's beat," said the OML man. "I can get 'er on but I wouldn't drive too far on it." I didn't. I just hobbled down to the garage where the mechanic confirmed the diagnosis. My car sits there still, waiting for a new rim to come in. They had to order it from Winnipeg of course. Mind you, my run of bad luck is nothing compared to the town of Alfred. They had a fire last week in that little hamlet of 1,100 people just 40 miles east of Ottawa. The Alfred firefighters were on the scene but they. couldn't do much. Building burn- ed right to-the-ground. Which was bad enough, but what really burned the firefight- ers up was the particular building they lost. It was the Alfred Fire Hall. -After the fire had started, an electrical failure jammed the ga- rage door to the fire hall. There stood all that shiny, sleek fire- fighting equipment doing a slow- roast inside the hall; ahd there were all the fireman banging on the door trying to get in. It's not a total disaster. No one was hurt, and the fire hall was well-insured. The folks in Alfred will start building a bigger, better fire hall as soon as the investiga- tor's report has been made. The OPP say arson is not suspected. I should say not. They're not looking for a guy with a torch, they're looking for a guy with a raincloud. Name of Joe Btfsplk.