How do you avoid it? You don't. You can't. Stuff happens.

The same month that memories of Three Hills in the Bible Belt of Alberta are recalled in another item in the Canadian Vindicator e-zine (see In Memory's Eye) comes the latest from Ballymena, often described as "the buckle on the Bible Belt" in the Six Counties of Ulster that are partitioned off from the rest of Ireland.

Let it be pointed out at once that there is no correlation between the two communities other than the shared biblical appellation. There is an appealing openness in the values of Three Hills and its residents. There is an appalling shutness in the values of Ballymena and its Town Council.

That Council gained world fame when it opposed giving actor Liam Neeson the freedom of "the city" because he had been quoting saying, as a Catholic, he had felt a second class citizen growing up in the town.

True to form, one of the town councillors. Sam Gaston, hit the headlines in January when he blew a gasket on discovering that councillors were being supplied with mineral water from Co. Donegal "in a neighbouring country".

Hellfire and brimstone! This in Ian Paisley's own constituency! The only thing worse would be holy water!

And to top it off, the local GAA football club was seeking funding from the Council to acquire a new grass mower for its football pitch.

"The enemy is at the gates."

Ballymena is under siege. Water from the Republic. Recognition for a Catholic. And a lawn mower for a Gaelic football club.

It's nice to live in Canada.

But it's still fun to remember the old days, as depicted in the following traditional folk song:

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon,
Where's many the ruction myself had a han' in,
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade,
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade.
On the Twelfth of July, as around it would come,
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum.
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But there's none can compare with the old Orange flute.

But Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in,
For he married a Papish called Bridget McGinn,
Turned Papish himself, and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now the boys of the place made some comments upon it,
And Bob had to flee to the Province of Connaught,
Took with him his wife, and his fixings to boot,
And along with the latter his old Orange flute.

At the chapel on Sundays, to atone for past deeds,
He said Paters and Aves, and counted his beads,
Till after some time, at the priest's own desire,
He went with his old flute to play in the choir.
He went with the old flute to play for the Mass,
But the instrument shivered and sighed, "Oh Alas!"
And blow as he would, though it made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys."

Bob jumped, and he started, and got in a flutter,
And threw his old flute in the blest Holy Water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound
But when he played it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down."
And for all he could whistle, and finger, and blow,
To play Papish music he found it no go;
"Kick The Pope," and "Boyne Water," it freely would sound,
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.

At the council of priests that was held the next day,
They decided to banish the old flute away.
They couldn't knock heresy out of its head,
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its stead.
The old flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic,
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as heretic.
And as the flames roared around it, they heard a strange noise--
'Twas the old flute still whistlin' "The Protestant Boys!"

--30--