80 YEARS AGO, Kelvington Radio, 1938, NOBLEVILLE: On Sept. 22, three brothers pleaded guilty in court to attacking and robbing an old-age pensioner in February 1937. The three were sentenced to one year in jail and four lashes. -Reprinted from Wadena News, “Looking Back”
Wow, lashes! It’s not just a Saudi Arabian practice. What a backward lot. Thankfully the penal system here doesn’t still do it.
Another excerpt from the same local newspaper said that in 1948 a drunk driver lost his licence for three years and got 30 days in jail. Now that’s more like it. I might not go so far as to suggest lashes are the way to go, but I bet a lengthy stint in jail and the threat of losing your licence for years would make some difference.
Maybe lashes would put the fear of pain and public humiliation into the hearts of lawbreakers whose good judgment is totally gone. I’ve known one or two who would drive without a licence even if being caught meant going to jail. Would the threat of lashes deter them? Clearly the possibility of killing someone else on the road doesn’t. This province has the worst incidence of drunk driving in the entire country and it doesn’t seem as if that statistic is changing. Are we just a bunch of dummies or what?
No, no. Not dumb. Just impaired by alcohol. Judgment-impaired.
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Mary, I have Diana Krall’s album “Love Scenes” and it’s coming with me when I go to the desert island.
Bridge City Poet, just as Gardot doesn’t do anything for you, Norah Jones doesn’t move me. I like her music okay and have one of her albums, but my blood doesn’t start sizzling.
It’s interesting how we are all so fundamentally different, right down to our bones! It’s no wonder I always felt like slapping Creep Ghomeshi when he’d announce on national radio, “You must have this music!” Um, no. No thank you. It may be all the rage to some, but there are certain types I listen to for a minute or two to give myself a chance to like them, and usually end up turning off the radio before the song is over. Why torture myself?
One thing about music is that it’s not the lyrics that I twig into; Gardot could be singing about baked beans and I’d still get all dreamy. I don’t seem to note the words, just the melody and her voice.
And isn’t it fascinating what you like and what you don’t? For instance, there is a wiriness in the voice of Iris DeMent that irritates the hell out of me; yet the wiry-sounding aspect of Emmylou Harris doesn’t bother me. A minor variation in tone is all it takes to put a person off a certain singer.
I’m not a fan of Billie Holiday; in spite of my initial aversion to Madeleine Peyroux I now love her stuff — yet her singing reminds me very much of Holiday’s. Go figure. We like what we like and that’s an end to it. Maybe someday I’ll even find something to appreciate in the vocal style of Janis Joplin, which sends me running from the room to escape the noise.