Were we under attack?

After being kept frightened and dismayed for months by fearsome events occurring almost everywhere else, we seemed to become victims of terrorism ourselves here Sunday morning during a three-hour power outage in the coldest weather of this winter so far!
As we fled southwards in the style of other waves of recent refugees, we managed to reach the friendly confines of Barney’s restaurant over in International Falls.
There, plenty of coffee was being held by some of our regular A & W friends. We traded hair-raising stories of what might be happening during our absence from homes. And wondered would we ever see them again?
Strangely enough, though, there very few Canadians in that crowd and, as the dreadful hours of that fateful morning crept away, there emerged a certain confidence that eventually it might be safe to return home—and that all this unChristmas-like terror and panic might be completely uncalled for.
Someone passed the word that Osama bin Laden had not been seen sharpening his sword here that morning and it might be better to pretend our fears were entirely imagination.
Just the same, bin Laden had hit the World Trade Centre towers in New York City and had been noticed loitering about again somewhere only last month. So it certainly was conceivable his gang could be coming after us again, and maybe this time through our local power lines!
If the temperature had dropped even lower Sunday morning, wouldn’t a lot of Afghans and Iraqis be dancing in their streets instead of running for shelter like us?
Then supposing Barney’s, like our own coffee shops that morning, had also run out of coffee? Talk about a fate worse than death, will you, huh?
Then there is a somewhat sinister aspect in all this conjecture! Such as why wasn’t our neighbour across the river also lacking lights and heat Sunday morning?
It is generally understood both our towns share on the same power grid!
The full explanation hadn’t reached my ears yet, but to just what extent are we still in peril?
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My recent eye problem has been attracting comment, both kind and the other kind. The Langstaffs (mother and son) were shopping when they suggested I start on hot compress treatments.
On the other end of this story is the suggestion that I might benefit from a hard, overhand right cross!
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Then there’s Bud Cyr bemoaning our scant snowfall, making for such a poor trapping season!
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The Presbyterians are predicting a short life for their grand old church—one of the more attractive buildings around. They say there could be a closing in two years and hopes are fading.
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A certain Gary J. from Emo is still clowning behind the broadest grin around—and some of the better jokes you’ll hear. Sometimes borderline maybe, though.
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A local plumber has been unlucky in getting to see my problem because his trade is taking a back seat to both a physician and optometrist day after day recently, but I’ve got his pipefitting job promised as a Christmas gift if he can ever get to it!
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As I hear that fine old song “Amazing Grace” repeatedly these days, I am reminded of our great singer, Fran Marie Murray, concerning whom I have heard nothing of late years.
Fran and husband Jack Murray, a former town police chief, moved to Saskatchewan about 10 years ago—but first she got us all loving that song!
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Bob and Elsie Matevia intend soon to move to Victoria, B.C., where a son works. Bob is a former operator of the old Gillmor-Noden hardware store here.
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The fellow who made the radio statement about “there’s nothing north of the Falls” was heartily “booed” for it in the Falls. He made no friends among our bass tournament boosters, for sure!
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The funeral of Ken Radbourne brought a turnout of an estimated 300 mourners into the spacious Emo Legion Hall on Saturday morning.
Ken, member of a pioneer farming family just north of the village, also was a leader of his church which was represented by members from Manitoba, nearby states, and much of the district.
One of the women speakers came from California.
Their church, known as the Christian or Gospel Fellowship, holds a large annual convention in early summer on one Radbourne farm.
Ken was the youngest of three sons of Walter Radbourne who all became dairy farmers. His nephew, Bob, recently sold his well-known farm.
Ken farmed in partnership with his brother, Len, before working at the paper mill. His son, Paul, is a Fort Frances fireman.

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