Columnists

lsproule@thereview.ca
I couldn’t sleep. The T-4 slips I had prepared contained a few errors. Reviewing my payroll records, I had not remitted enough funds on their behalf.
The dollar amount in question was about $16 and change, if I recall correctly. I knew I had to tell the boss.
I told him and offered to pay the amount myself. At the time, with the all-knowing wisdom that comes with being 18 years old, the error seemed unforgiveable. 

lsproule@thereview.ca
A lady visited our offices recently, asking to use our wireless internet. Without hesitation, I typed our password into her iPad. She was able to send the emails she needed to send.
Without getting into personal details, she was in town for family reasons and although I didn’t know her, I knew of her family.
At the door, she turned to say, “It’s good to be back in a small town again. I miss that.”

lsproule@thereview.ca
Last week. It was the week of communication hell. On Tuesday, our internet service blinked on and off like the lights at a crosswalk. As the day progressed, we learned that emails we thought we had sent . . . had not arrived at all.
As we prepared to head to Vankleek Hill Collegiate Institute to livestream Jim Jordan’s presentation, we learned that a request for internet, which had been made earlier in  February, had gone awry . . . and alas, no arrangements had been made.

lsproule@thereview.ca
I had been thinking about things seen and unseen when we watched John Lloyd conduct a humorous inventory of the invisible in an online video this past weekend.
I felt for a moment that he had stolen my idea, as he mentioned several invisible things that continue to perplex me, but he did overlook a few that are important to me.
There is a lengthy list of things that we cannot see; yet we have no doubt that they exist.

lsproule@thereview.ca
Take me away. Please. Have you ever had one of those days . . . or weeks, where you can imagine yourself on a tropical island . . . with endless amounts of good food and liquid refreshments? But: no phone. No internet. Just happy people.
I have been making a mental list these past few weeks. The list would include: everyone I would like to bring with me if I could have my very own community on a desert island, away from it all. It came together last night when I read an online article about dealing with negative people.

lsproule@thereview.ca
Don’t you hate it when you see someone in a so-called position of power speak to a customer in a demeaning way? Sometimes, a person is just trying to solve a problem, correct a billing mistake, or understand a process. But from the person behind the desk, a message of immutable power is communicated to the lowly paying customer on the other side. And yes, what power it is to control people’s billing information. What incredible superiority seems to reside with some of those who schedule appointments or who tell you to follow the yellow line down the hall.

lsproule@thereview.ca
As I write this, the snow is swirling outside and the sidewalks are impassable. Our parking lot is one solid swath of knee-deep snow. The stalwart drivers who made it in to work this morning are aghast at the incoming road updates: road closures seem to be . . . dare I say it . . . closing in upon us.
If need be, there will be a slumber party on Higginson Street, I think.

lsproule@thereview.ca

know about the party? That is what people wanted to know as I arrived at a surprise party organized just for me last Thursday evening.
No, I answered repeatedly, surprised to realize that so many people had not only set aside their evening to celebrate my 20 years as publisher of this newspaper, but had managed to keep the whole thing a secret from me.  Although I like to think I am up to date on what is happening in our community, this tidbit had evaded me.