Every so often, we are all confronted with the fact of aging. For my six-year-old daughter, itís probing her teeth looking for the first sign of a wiggle so she can pop out those baby teeth and sprout those awful Chiclet-looking adult teeth in their stead. For me, itís attempting to bend backwards into a bridge as I used to do when I was younger only to hear a nasty sounding pop, or to see the emerging signs of more white hair.
It must be hard to be the government of Alberta, what with so many billions of dollars to handle, so many departments to juggle. I know I wouldn't want the job. Now despite years of trucking $100 per barrel oil out of the ground, the government finds it can't make ends meet, so it has to cut nine per cent out of program spending.
In Grade 6, I had a teacher named Mr. Vogel. Mr. Vogel was a thin, fastidious man, and the kids in his class liked to crack jokes at him about his multi-coloured jeans and the blinding light that would bounce off his bald forehead.
These days, the idea of free agency in major North American sports is something that hardly gets a second thought. We are accustomed to the idea of professional athletes playing musical chairs with various dugouts and benches across the league, and we all know the risks that are associated with purchasing a jersey of your favourite player while he plays for your favourite team.