Hold your saliva while I scrape off some rust

By Bill Bowman

“Yes we are the people, living in the race,

Buying up the bargains in the old market place;

Another sale on something, we’ll buy it while it’s hot,

And save a lot of money, spending money we don’t got.”

There are some vandals out there who have themselves convinced they can somehow change the course of time simply by taking sledge hammers to inanimate objects, like statues of some of history’s most notorious architects. Despite their lofty perches on pedestals, these were not exactly the types of characters you’d fancy being married to your sister, and have for brothers-in-law. Indeed, even the thought of honoring, and preserving the memories of those whose words and deeds were hardly honorable in the first place, seems unthinkable in our time, when the pendulum has swung so far in the opposite direction, toward ultra political correctness.

Still and all, knocking down statues of undesirables seems counterproductive, not to mention an exercise in futility. Nine out of 10 passers-by wouldn’t recognize those figures without stopping to read the inscription on the plaque, which they’re not going to do. Even if they did, they’re hardly going to fall on their knees and offer prayers of homage and thanksgiving.

So wouldn’t it be better just to leave them be, to be mocked, scorned, and used as spittoons or urinals. Besides, without these objects, where are the poor crows and gulls supposed to go, when they have to go? Better a statue of one of those scoundrels be the target of the pigeons and gulls, than some poor fellow like Karl Wells, who was only trying to give out the weather forecast on the St. John’ waterfront, a few years back, when he came under a direct hit from an ill mannered, low flying seagull.

Finally, and I’ll give this a rest, most of these statues and monuments depict characters who have been dead as door nails for well over 100 years and hopefully, unable to do any more harm.

If you still think monumental vandalism proves or solves anything, go ahead, take your best shots at General Cornwallis or Sir John A. But, while you’re at it, why not try something really useful, and productive for a change. Pick up those pieces and knock up an even larger statue on a plywood pedestal to someone who really deserves not to be forgotten, the author of those immortal words quoted respectfully above to lead this piece wherever it minds to take your imagination.

A graduate of the school of hard knocks, some of Stompin Tom’s words and syntax may not have been the most grammatically correct. But truer, more authentic and profound, yet simply expressed sentiments have rarely flown from the pen of poet, nor escaped the lips of prophet.

Attired in his trademark cowboy hat and boots, he stomped across the stage decades before the invention of political correctness, that great scourge and plague of the new millennium. At its best, it’s a nuisance, and at its worst, a potential threat to our freedoms of speech and expression.

The great bard of P.E.I. was a humble soul with little or nothing to be humble about, in a profession where, too often, hubris and ego are in constant battle over the tour bus steering wheel, while humility quietly, apologetically, head slightly bowed, makes its way to the back of the bus, if indeed, it makes it onboard at all. If the tour bus were a train, humility would, probably, be in the caboose.

Humility just happens to be my favorite trait in a fellow human being. Perhaps that may explain why I have never suffered pretentious, puffed up, pompous politicians, some so called, celebrities, and media personalities, those born with silver spoons in their gobs, people with superiority complexes, and anyone else who think more riches, wealth and/or fame somehow makes them better than the rest of us mere mortals.

The late, great comedian, Groucho Marx was once at one of those stuffy Hollywood affairs, where a sharp knife would come in handy to cut the pretension. Desperate for a quick escape route, instead he ran smack into the haughty hostess. “Leaving so early Mr. Marx,” inquired she. To which he responded: “Yea, I’ve had a wonderful time. This wasn’t it.”

Having attended and covered more rubber chicken dinners in 40 years punched in the newspaper racket, I can identify with Groucho’s sentiments. Not all, but some were stuffy affairs with boring speeches. The good feeds and the people were the only consolations. Always good people!

I recall sitting in a room full of fellow community newspaper editors from around the province, where a Journalism prof from the mainland was giving us a daylong seminar. Encouraging us to write (something) every day, he reminded us, “You can get rusty after only one day of not writing.”

Since this is my first offering in the public prints in 10 years, you can only imagine how rusty I must be. I told Mr. Editor/Publisher I was as rusty as an old tin can. So, he provided me with this new laptop machine, something I haven’t used in a decade, and asked me to scrape off the rust and the dust.

A strange racket this columnizing! This one started off, innocently enough, with a quote from Stompin Tom’s classic song about the consumer. Your humble columnist thought it would make a good lead into a rant about the astronomical price of grub, something which seems to be on everybody’s lips, if not in their stomachs these days. So, I guess I’ll have to sink my teeth into that one at some time in the future.

Speaking of which, it’s yet to be determined if this column is going to appear weekly, biweekly, monthly, sporadically, occasionally, or whatever.

If it takes as long to get my next column off the ground as it did to launch this trial balloon, you may not hear from me again till sometime after Labor Day.

It’s not that I’m constipated for words. It’s the ever changing, unforgiving technology, up with which I cannot keep. This new laptop is a wonderful smart machine. Now if I could only remember which button he told me to press to send this piece around the bay, from Carbonear to CBS! Oh! We must be on our way! I think we just passed the Fleetline Bus in Avondale!

Born March 31, 1949 at Carbonear, Bill Bowman was one of the last Newfoundlanders to have been born on the day the Terms of Union were signed before midnight, making Newfoundland Canada’s 10th province. In 1973 he began work as a reporter, photographer and editor. Besides his newspaper writing, Bill also co-wrote, with the late Bill Parsons of Harbour Grace, Challenge of The Atlantic, a photo-illustrated history of the pioneer days of aviation. He also served as board member with the NL Arts Council (1980s), and continues his interest in the arts as a board member with the Sheila NaGeira Theatre.