At this time of year, I swear the Newfoundland part of our province sinks deeper into the icy North Atlantic Ocean. It has little to do with the ebb and flow of the tides. It has more to do with the collective weight of so many more people putting such an immense strain on our island's foundation that it cannot help but sag a little towards the resting place of the Titanic. Nothing calls a Newfoundlander back home more than the season that is Christmas.
Late last week, I had to go to the airport in St. John's to pick up my wife and daughter, Lynda and Kendall, who were returning from Kendall's swim meet that was held in Montreal. Their flight was to arrive at 11 p.m. and it just so happened that several other flights were scheduled to arrive at around the same time. When I walked into the normally sparsely populated terminal, I found myself having to zigzag around the myriads of people who had come to the airport to meet arriving family members.
We are either not a patient people or we are extremely loving. (I think it's the latter.) It seems that entire families are required to go to the airport in hopes of being the first to be able to say he or she was the first to get a glimpse of Ricky, Margie and the kids as they ascended the escalator to meet up with their luggage that may or may not have made the flight.
Despite the fact that several of the flights were delayed and the others had not yet let the passengers deplane, no one would dare move away from the entrance to the arrivals area. I had no intention of adding to the chaos, so I figured I would mosey up to the Tim Horton's to see if I developed a thirst for a cup of tea. To get there I had to get through the throng. When I finally succeeded, I realized what a pinball ball must feel like. I wasn't interested in a replay or to be tilted any more, so I decided to hang a safe distance from the arrivals area. Lynda would have to text me when she and Kendall finally arrived.
As I sat in relative safety, people-watching, I couldn't help but recall a time when I was living abroad and was lucky enough to get home for the holidays. I was a cop, living and working in Ontario. An investigation I was working on had me dealing with my counterparts in St. John's. As luck would have it, they needed a prisoner escorted from Toronto to St. John's on a last minute, urgent basis. It was December 22nd and no one, who was already in Newfoundland, was willing to risk leaving so close to Christmas. The unpredictable weather or the even more unpredictable airlines could easily commute a wonderful down home Christmas to the not-so-merry metropolis of Mississauga. In me, the Mounties had their man. In return I got an all expense paid trip back home to see the folks and two brothers. It was pre-kids for Lynda and me, so she was happy to see me go. (I'm not certain that sounds the way that I meant it.)
I had no idea who my prisoner was to be. It didn't matter because it was to be a quick three hour flight and I could stomach anyone for that long. The guy had been in jail for a while, so I was certain he'd be content with the change of scenery. It turned out the prisoner was also a transplanted Newfoundlander. Like so many of us, he had left home to seek fame and fortune in the big city of Toronto. Well, he may have been more infamous than famous, but he carried the common trait we all have of always considering the Rock to be home.
I didn't let on to this guy that I too was a Newf. After years of mainland living, I had become fluently bilingual enough that I could turn on or off my native Newfanese, so he never caught on. He revelled in the idea of telling me all about the unbeatable experience I would have when I spent an evening on George Street. He had a particular affinity for one particular nightclub called the Sundance. Apparently, the world renown friendly ladies of Newfoundland were even more so at this particular establishment. He repeatedly suggested that no visit to St. John's would be complete without experiencing all that the Sundance had to offer. I did a lot of nodding and listening to his stories and assured him that I would give the place a try. It almost seemed cruel not to tell him that I had chugged more than my share of beer at that place in my younger days, but we cops have found it a bad practice to tell bad guys too much about our personal lives. The last thing any cop wants is for some bad guy showing up on his doorstep, whether it be to exact revenge or just to reminisce about old times.
As I arrived at the old airport in St. John's, with its one carousel and 1940's decor, I saw my mom and dad amongst the horde of people waiting. With only two family members there to meet me, we were thoroughly outnumbered by the rest of the clans. I had given my folks careful instructions not to approach me until my prisoner was off my hands. Luckily for me, my RCMP comrades hadn't started partying early and remembered to meet me and their prisoner. I retrieved my handcuffs from the wrists of my travelling companion and bid him and the officers a Merry Christmas and farewell. As I was making my way to my awaiting parents, I heard the prisoner shout to me from across the crowded terminal, "Remember Jim, it's called the Sundance." He gave me the Newfie nod and was whisked away. I never did find out what happened to him. I'm sure he's now out of jail for whatever it was that caused him to be locked up over fifteen years ago.
It's funny how I fondly recall that story after so many years. Many cops have told me of their own memorable experiences involving Newfoundlanders - how Newfs are so honest that they often will readily admit to a crime when asked if they did it; or how they love a good scrap with a cop, but always fight fairly and go willingly when bested.
When a group of people are unique, an oft used phrase to explain the uniqueness is "there must be something in the water." In the case of the people of our province, this phrase is so true. The something in the water for us is this island that sits all alone in the frigid North Atlantic. Hopefully, we will never change. See you at the airport.
Merry Christmas
Jim
Friday, December 23, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Why Do We Love Parades Anyway?
What a great vantage point I have for today's Santa Claus parade. My two kids are participants and are so excited not to be on the sidelines for the first time. Their swim club will all be dressed as Smurfs. (I can't believe my spell checker doesn't recognize that word!)
The weather is actually not too bad - partly sunny, -1, along with the ever present refreshingly brisk wind. The kids' mom has made sure that they are dressed appropriately - for the North Pole! They can hardly walk because they have so many layers of clothing on. I don't recall Clumsy, Brainy, Handy or even Lazy Smurf ever wearing much more than a white hat and white spandex. Even the only female smurf, Smurfette, wore just a hat and a flimsy dress. At least if all the kids in the parade dressed like a true smurf, then the blue skin would take care of itself.
Frost bite will never happen, certainly not to my kids. Their mom is planning on shadowing the group as they move along the narrow downtown streets of St. John's. She has an armful of extra clothing - just in case. She says she will move in and out of the crowd in order to keep up. I hope no one gets in her way, so all those kids in strollers better watch out. Such is a mother's perogative. They are the protectors and nurturers of their own children.
I suggested to Lynda that she may fare better if she walked on the street with the kids and not through the crowd. I said she could pretend to be the evil Gargamel, which caused daggers to shoot from her eyes at me. Ultimately, I must learn to keep my thoughts to myself. Things would be so much more smurfy.
The parade is almost over. I just received a text from Lynda. Apparently, our youngest daughter chickened out and didn't go in the parade. Someone must of told her to be Scaredy Smurf and she took the role seriously. Now that's dedication. With one kid in the parade and one watching, I'm not sure how Lynda is managing in her motherly duties. From my vantage point it is hard to see. Oh well, I'll just sit back, relax, and have another sip of my tea. By the way, did I tell you that I have the best seat in town for the parade? I'm at Starbucks, sitting by the fireplace. I haven't really abandoned my family and I really am being a good dad, I'm pretending to be Papa Smurf.
Friday, October 28, 2011
I'm Brighter than Einstein
I recently had one of those extremely rare "Ah ha" moments. The light bulb glowing in the thought bubble above my head was not one of those low wattage compact flourescant ones either. It was a good old fashioned 100 watter. The type that burns the hand off of you when you try and take it out after its only been on for a count of five. The type of bulb that is perfect for symbolizing the brightest of ideas. It had to be the old fashioned type of bulb to befit the stupendous discovery that had just come to me.
I don't know about you, but those newfangled CFL's remind me of a pig's tail. A tail is always situated right next to the "poo hole". (I got the term from eavesdropping on conversations between my kids and their friends. It's king of gross, but on the other hand, very accurate.) What's up with those bulbs anyhow? Like most people I know, I bought in to the idea that they were the best thing since sliced bread. On every box you will find the promise that these lights will save you hundreds of dollars. I must have 50 or 60 of those bulbs in my house and so far, my bank account doesn't reflect that promise made by the manufacturers.
Yesterday, I had to replace a CFL that is dimmable. That one bulb cost me $11.68. It was a 14 watt bulb and it supposedly gives off the same brightness as the old 60 watt bulb. That's a difference of 46 watts, so if I calculate the cost per kilowatt hour and multiply that by the number of hours........... Crap! My math is looking like chicken scratches........ wait........ wait.......... forget it..... I thought I may be having an Einstein moment, but it was just gas from the sandwhich I had for lunch. So, not only are these CFL bulbs expensive and many contain harmful mercury, but we also see how easily it is to associate them with pig defecation (i.e. poop). Not exactly a powerful symbol to represent ground breaking ideas. This is one case where newer is not exactly better.
Sorry about getting side tracked. Writing sets off lots of little little bulbs for me, so I'm easily distracted. Let's return to the point of today's blog - my "Ah ha" moment. It was as if the burden of a life long delimma had finally been lifted from my shoulders. I finally knew what needed to be done. I'm sure Einstein felt the same exileration when he looked at his chalkboard of chicken scratches and saw the answer to his life's work staring him in the face. I now know how Sir Issac Newton felt moments after the apple feel from the tree and bopped him on the noggin and, instead of stars, he saw the explanation for earth's gravity.
For years I had jostled with a problem and there seemed to be no perfect solution. Each and every time, tiny bits of tuna were ending up in the mayo jar whenever I made my patented triple decker tuna sandwich. As everyone knows, the tuna and mayo must be mixed together before spreading that mixture out on the welcoming wafers of wheat. The secret of a great tuna sandwich is lots of yummy mayo. A dry tuna sandwich is akin to trying to swallowing salty saw dust. When a sandwich lacks sufficient mayo, the damn thing never stays together and the tuna ends up all over your lunch box or suit pocket. The mayo is the mortar of the culinary world.
For years, I have opened tins of dolphin free tuna (dolphins may get it for free, but I usually pay about a buck) and used the lid to squeeze off the liquid. I admit I have been tempted to put it in a glass and drink it, but I haven't had the nerve. Who knows where that stuff has been! I then used my butter knife to pry it from the can into a cereal sized bowl. Even the flaky tuna comes out like a hockey puck, so I surgically applied the knife to spread the tuna around the bowl. The most important step was next. Adding the perfect amount of mayo is the key to a great sandwich. This required using the knife to dive into the keg of mayo and coming out with an amount that would get me close to the perfect viscosity, but never too much. A soggy sandwich is a sinful sign of laziness. I always had to go back to the mayo keg to extract a little more in order to get my meal to where it needed to be. That was the cause of the dilema. Tuna molecules would be left in the mayo jar and it didn't seem to matter how well I wiped the knife on the bread before diving back in. No one else in my family appreciates a triple decker tuna samdwich like I do. In fact, they hate tuna. My love affair with tuna was causing a rift in my family. I was out numbered and after nearly 20 years of marriage and 11 years as a dad, I was finally learning which battles are worth fighting
I was in a state of despair and gloom as I envisioned life without my beloved tuna and mayo duo. But it's so true that things are darkest at dawn. My 100 watt light bulb came on just when I needed it most. The perfect solution was at hand. It was as good as the theory of relativity and the law of gravity combined. I solved the tuna in the mayo conundrum -- I just had to lick the tuna off the knife before dipping back in for more mayo. Ingenious or what? Touché Albert.
I don't know about you, but those newfangled CFL's remind me of a pig's tail. A tail is always situated right next to the "poo hole". (I got the term from eavesdropping on conversations between my kids and their friends. It's king of gross, but on the other hand, very accurate.) What's up with those bulbs anyhow? Like most people I know, I bought in to the idea that they were the best thing since sliced bread. On every box you will find the promise that these lights will save you hundreds of dollars. I must have 50 or 60 of those bulbs in my house and so far, my bank account doesn't reflect that promise made by the manufacturers.
Yesterday, I had to replace a CFL that is dimmable. That one bulb cost me $11.68. It was a 14 watt bulb and it supposedly gives off the same brightness as the old 60 watt bulb. That's a difference of 46 watts, so if I calculate the cost per kilowatt hour and multiply that by the number of hours........... Crap! My math is looking like chicken scratches........ wait........ wait.......... forget it..... I thought I may be having an Einstein moment, but it was just gas from the sandwhich I had for lunch. So, not only are these CFL bulbs expensive and many contain harmful mercury, but we also see how easily it is to associate them with pig defecation (i.e. poop). Not exactly a powerful symbol to represent ground breaking ideas. This is one case where newer is not exactly better.
Sorry about getting side tracked. Writing sets off lots of little little bulbs for me, so I'm easily distracted. Let's return to the point of today's blog - my "Ah ha" moment. It was as if the burden of a life long delimma had finally been lifted from my shoulders. I finally knew what needed to be done. I'm sure Einstein felt the same exileration when he looked at his chalkboard of chicken scratches and saw the answer to his life's work staring him in the face. I now know how Sir Issac Newton felt moments after the apple feel from the tree and bopped him on the noggin and, instead of stars, he saw the explanation for earth's gravity.
For years I had jostled with a problem and there seemed to be no perfect solution. Each and every time, tiny bits of tuna were ending up in the mayo jar whenever I made my patented triple decker tuna sandwich. As everyone knows, the tuna and mayo must be mixed together before spreading that mixture out on the welcoming wafers of wheat. The secret of a great tuna sandwich is lots of yummy mayo. A dry tuna sandwich is akin to trying to swallowing salty saw dust. When a sandwich lacks sufficient mayo, the damn thing never stays together and the tuna ends up all over your lunch box or suit pocket. The mayo is the mortar of the culinary world.
For years, I have opened tins of dolphin free tuna (dolphins may get it for free, but I usually pay about a buck) and used the lid to squeeze off the liquid. I admit I have been tempted to put it in a glass and drink it, but I haven't had the nerve. Who knows where that stuff has been! I then used my butter knife to pry it from the can into a cereal sized bowl. Even the flaky tuna comes out like a hockey puck, so I surgically applied the knife to spread the tuna around the bowl. The most important step was next. Adding the perfect amount of mayo is the key to a great sandwich. This required using the knife to dive into the keg of mayo and coming out with an amount that would get me close to the perfect viscosity, but never too much. A soggy sandwich is a sinful sign of laziness. I always had to go back to the mayo keg to extract a little more in order to get my meal to where it needed to be. That was the cause of the dilema. Tuna molecules would be left in the mayo jar and it didn't seem to matter how well I wiped the knife on the bread before diving back in. No one else in my family appreciates a triple decker tuna samdwich like I do. In fact, they hate tuna. My love affair with tuna was causing a rift in my family. I was out numbered and after nearly 20 years of marriage and 11 years as a dad, I was finally learning which battles are worth fighting
I was in a state of despair and gloom as I envisioned life without my beloved tuna and mayo duo. But it's so true that things are darkest at dawn. My 100 watt light bulb came on just when I needed it most. The perfect solution was at hand. It was as good as the theory of relativity and the law of gravity combined. I solved the tuna in the mayo conundrum -- I just had to lick the tuna off the knife before dipping back in for more mayo. Ingenious or what? Touché Albert.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Headline 2041 - "Senior with Shrinkage Scares Swimmers"
In my most recent story, Jim at the Gym, I mentioned that the time of day I generally go for a workout is also when the more mature segment of our society drops by to get a sweat on. Older people are wonderful. I say that because my dealings with my fellow gym mates has taught me that with age comes a profound grace and a keen sense of self. It is the grey and blue haired members of my gym who are the first ones to greet me with a "hello" or a "good morning".
In the three weeks I've been a gym enthusiasts, I don't think anyone under 60 has even attempted to make eye contact with me. God knows they are not threatened by my not so bulging bicepts or left feeling inadequate when they see me naked as I exit from the shower. That being said, I do make certain that I tell anyone, who cares to listen, that I love to take really cold showers. I have my pride to consider.
This morning, following a not so brisk 1000 meter swim, I was sharing the hot tub with an older lady. We had a nice chat and as she was leaving, she suggested I move over to the jet on the far side, as it was the most powerful and provided the best therapeutic experience. I thanked her and slide over. Boy, was she right. The water flowing from that one jet was heavenly. I doubt any whipper snapper aged 59 or younger would have ever shared that secret with me.
A few minutes later, two older gents joined me and they immediately joked about how I had the best jet in the hot tub. I guess maybe it is not such a secret after all, at least not amongst the ageless members of the gym.
The older of the two men told me he has been coming to this gym for almost thirty years. His wife died several years ago and he said he would be lost without the companionship and sense of belonging that came with being a member of the gym. He also said that the gym was the best hospital in the province. By that he meant that the physical, mental and spiritual benefits of exercising the body, mind and soul has helped him stay healthy and avoid trips to the real hospital. Apparently, his two grown sons have yet to discover the real and intrinsic advantages of going to the gym and he doesn't understand why they knowingly choose to compromise their health. I suggested that, perhaps in time, they will come to see what their dad already knows. He hoped so. He offered to pay for their membership but even that generousity has not swayed the younger men from burning the candle of health at both ends. Youth really is wasted on the young.
In a way I'm sort of glad that this man's two sons will not yet be joining my gym. I don't really relish the thought of more nameless and faceless middle-agers going around the gym as if they have a weight bar stuck up their butts. His sons would probably be two more 30 or 40 something year old guys who would be taking up space in the locker room and giving me the silent treatment. Would eye contact and a nod be too much to ask from the pre-senior crowd? It seems that for most of my peers common courtesy is akin to going to confession or public speaking. I'll keep trying to be pleasant and nodding in their direction just in case. At least my neck muscles are getting a work out.
The younger crowd can sure learn a lot from our seniors about politeness and generosity. There's one thing I won't be sharing with that younger crowd though and that is the location of that dreamy jet in the hot tub. That's just between me and my senior friends.
Thankfully, everyone is required to wear swim suits while in the hot tub. There's something just not right about having it all hang out while in such a small body of water that is shared by so many people. Also, what about if I were naked and just left the hot tub? How would I explain my..... appearance? It would be extremely difficult to fool everyone by saying that the water is really cold in there today. I have my pride to consider, remember.
Perhaps when I become a senior and finally mature, I'll wise up and I just won't give a damn about my pride and whether I'm wearing a swim suit or not. When the day comes that I clear out the general swimming session at the Aquarena because I show up poolside in just my birthday suit, I will have a good excuse. After I'm arrested, I'll tell the cops that I've been a member of the gym for 30 years and that I'm old. Hopefully, that will get me off. I'll also be sure to tell them that the water was really cold. We seniors have our pride too.
In the three weeks I've been a gym enthusiasts, I don't think anyone under 60 has even attempted to make eye contact with me. God knows they are not threatened by my not so bulging bicepts or left feeling inadequate when they see me naked as I exit from the shower. That being said, I do make certain that I tell anyone, who cares to listen, that I love to take really cold showers. I have my pride to consider.
This morning, following a not so brisk 1000 meter swim, I was sharing the hot tub with an older lady. We had a nice chat and as she was leaving, she suggested I move over to the jet on the far side, as it was the most powerful and provided the best therapeutic experience. I thanked her and slide over. Boy, was she right. The water flowing from that one jet was heavenly. I doubt any whipper snapper aged 59 or younger would have ever shared that secret with me.
A few minutes later, two older gents joined me and they immediately joked about how I had the best jet in the hot tub. I guess maybe it is not such a secret after all, at least not amongst the ageless members of the gym.
The older of the two men told me he has been coming to this gym for almost thirty years. His wife died several years ago and he said he would be lost without the companionship and sense of belonging that came with being a member of the gym. He also said that the gym was the best hospital in the province. By that he meant that the physical, mental and spiritual benefits of exercising the body, mind and soul has helped him stay healthy and avoid trips to the real hospital. Apparently, his two grown sons have yet to discover the real and intrinsic advantages of going to the gym and he doesn't understand why they knowingly choose to compromise their health. I suggested that, perhaps in time, they will come to see what their dad already knows. He hoped so. He offered to pay for their membership but even that generousity has not swayed the younger men from burning the candle of health at both ends. Youth really is wasted on the young.
In a way I'm sort of glad that this man's two sons will not yet be joining my gym. I don't really relish the thought of more nameless and faceless middle-agers going around the gym as if they have a weight bar stuck up their butts. His sons would probably be two more 30 or 40 something year old guys who would be taking up space in the locker room and giving me the silent treatment. Would eye contact and a nod be too much to ask from the pre-senior crowd? It seems that for most of my peers common courtesy is akin to going to confession or public speaking. I'll keep trying to be pleasant and nodding in their direction just in case. At least my neck muscles are getting a work out.
The younger crowd can sure learn a lot from our seniors about politeness and generosity. There's one thing I won't be sharing with that younger crowd though and that is the location of that dreamy jet in the hot tub. That's just between me and my senior friends.
Thankfully, everyone is required to wear swim suits while in the hot tub. There's something just not right about having it all hang out while in such a small body of water that is shared by so many people. Also, what about if I were naked and just left the hot tub? How would I explain my..... appearance? It would be extremely difficult to fool everyone by saying that the water is really cold in there today. I have my pride to consider, remember.
Perhaps when I become a senior and finally mature, I'll wise up and I just won't give a damn about my pride and whether I'm wearing a swim suit or not. When the day comes that I clear out the general swimming session at the Aquarena because I show up poolside in just my birthday suit, I will have a good excuse. After I'm arrested, I'll tell the cops that I've been a member of the gym for 30 years and that I'm old. Hopefully, that will get me off. I'll also be sure to tell them that the water was really cold. We seniors have our pride too.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Jim at the Gym
I'm just starting the third week of my latest adventure. It may prove to be my most ambitious project since my retirement of just over a year ago. It certainly tops my Costco experience, which was ill-timed and short lived, as it lasted just ten days. A more recent endeavour, of which many of you are all too familiar, was a four week and two day penal sentence at the Confederation Building. It was a self imposed imprisonment and certainly does not reflect upon the nice people that I met during my short time there. I chose to loose the shackles when it became apparent that I was a victim of double jeopardy. I had already served a twenty one year sentence for second guessing the justice system. Suddenly, there I was, back chasing the so-called bad guys, when I was no longer sure where the line, that supposedly separates the crooks from the do-gooders, falls. I've beaten that one to death over the last year in several stories, so I'll let that sleeping dog lie.
My latest and greatest preoccupation is to go to the gym. Maybe I shouldn't be comparing it to the jobs I had at Costco and with the provincial government, as exercise is supposed to be a lifestyle, not an occupation. After years of sitting on my ass, believe me, getting to the gym is a heck of a lot of work. It is certainly much tougher than cruising the aisles of Costco, waiting for elderly ladies to try and hide a case of toilet paper under their sweaters. It's also way more difficult than sitting in my cubicle on the 4th floor of the West Block, looking at my computer screen while trying to remember which of the dozen or so passwords got me into the program I was trying to use.
Exercise is the unheralded cure-all for just about every affliction. It's somewhat ironic that it is also the activity that we give up when our life situations become increasingly difficult to manage. That was certainly the case for me. During the last 7 or 8 years of my policing career, my responsibilities grew and my commitment to being a cop grew along with them. My gym bag was my constant companion at at the office. That was the problem, it just stayed in the office and never headed down the hallway to the well equipped gym that was situated in our building. I believed I was just too busy. I was shooting myself in the foot and not even realizing it.
I'm actually enjoying the sweat and pain that comes with asking my body do things it hasn't done very often these last few years. I can actually feel some of the jiggling as it becomes a little more toned. I've never really been one to regard weight as a definitive measure of fitness. Despite this, I did know what I weighed prior to beginning to exercise, so I was curious as to what I would weigh after two weeks of daily aerobic workouts. Holy crap, I was actually three pounds heavier! Sure, muscle is heavier than fat, but come on! I'll keep at it in the hopes that something gives on the weight front in the next few weeks. If not, I'll think about giving up.... (at least cutting back) on the oatmeal raisin cookies I have every day at my Starbucks office.
I ususally come to the gym just after Lynda and the kids are gone off to work and school. It's not overly busy there at that time. There are a few thirty something ladies, but the majority of the gym goers at that time are older gents. I assume that, like me, most of them are retired. I often hear chatter in the locker room about the expected increase to CPP and OAS or how hockey is just not the same as it was when Hull and Howe were the stars of the NHL. Now that's Bobby and Gordie, not Brett and Mark. Remember, my gym going compatriarts are old.
The gym has great facilities for us retired folks. There is a sauna and a hot tub for us to regenerate our aching bodies following a workout. Well, just this morning, I was telling my hot tub buddies how the circulating water was therapeutic for my stiff back and how the hot water also soothed the inflamed haemorrhoids I have been experiencing of late. Suddenly, I was alone in the hot tub. My friends said they just remembered they had to meet their wives for shopping. Apparently, they are headed to Costco because it's a great place to get toilet paper.
My latest and greatest preoccupation is to go to the gym. Maybe I shouldn't be comparing it to the jobs I had at Costco and with the provincial government, as exercise is supposed to be a lifestyle, not an occupation. After years of sitting on my ass, believe me, getting to the gym is a heck of a lot of work. It is certainly much tougher than cruising the aisles of Costco, waiting for elderly ladies to try and hide a case of toilet paper under their sweaters. It's also way more difficult than sitting in my cubicle on the 4th floor of the West Block, looking at my computer screen while trying to remember which of the dozen or so passwords got me into the program I was trying to use.
Exercise is the unheralded cure-all for just about every affliction. It's somewhat ironic that it is also the activity that we give up when our life situations become increasingly difficult to manage. That was certainly the case for me. During the last 7 or 8 years of my policing career, my responsibilities grew and my commitment to being a cop grew along with them. My gym bag was my constant companion at at the office. That was the problem, it just stayed in the office and never headed down the hallway to the well equipped gym that was situated in our building. I believed I was just too busy. I was shooting myself in the foot and not even realizing it.
I'm actually enjoying the sweat and pain that comes with asking my body do things it hasn't done very often these last few years. I can actually feel some of the jiggling as it becomes a little more toned. I've never really been one to regard weight as a definitive measure of fitness. Despite this, I did know what I weighed prior to beginning to exercise, so I was curious as to what I would weigh after two weeks of daily aerobic workouts. Holy crap, I was actually three pounds heavier! Sure, muscle is heavier than fat, but come on! I'll keep at it in the hopes that something gives on the weight front in the next few weeks. If not, I'll think about giving up.... (at least cutting back) on the oatmeal raisin cookies I have every day at my Starbucks office.
I ususally come to the gym just after Lynda and the kids are gone off to work and school. It's not overly busy there at that time. There are a few thirty something ladies, but the majority of the gym goers at that time are older gents. I assume that, like me, most of them are retired. I often hear chatter in the locker room about the expected increase to CPP and OAS or how hockey is just not the same as it was when Hull and Howe were the stars of the NHL. Now that's Bobby and Gordie, not Brett and Mark. Remember, my gym going compatriarts are old.
The gym has great facilities for us retired folks. There is a sauna and a hot tub for us to regenerate our aching bodies following a workout. Well, just this morning, I was telling my hot tub buddies how the circulating water was therapeutic for my stiff back and how the hot water also soothed the inflamed haemorrhoids I have been experiencing of late. Suddenly, I was alone in the hot tub. My friends said they just remembered they had to meet their wives for shopping. Apparently, they are headed to Costco because it's a great place to get toilet paper.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Want Some Hash?
Thanksgiving Day - what an awesome holiday, unless you're a turkey or, in Newfoundland, a piece of salt meat. What is that stuff made of anyway? It really doesn't matter, because it's the pearl in the oyster that is the feast we yummingly call Sunday Dinner, Jigg's Dinner, or Cooked Dinner. In our house, we call it 'Mudder's cooking a feed."
My now deceased father-in-law, Ron, was famous for floating his hefty plateful of food in a sea of gravy. He was given considerable teasing about that at every sit down. Inevitably, someone would exclaim "Hey Ron, gravy is not a beverage, ya know." I'm not one who should be throwing stones when my plate is also made of glass. Actually, when ever there's a feed, a prefer to opt for the plate with the sideboards. It probably looks more like a huge bowl, something that could easily be used to bathe an infant or two. Anything cooked in a pot with salt meat and then smothered with gravy deserves to be eaten in abundance and I'm only happy to oblige.
In Canada, our official Thanksgiving Day is always the second Monday of October. Everyone I know actually celebrated by eating the turkey and fixins on Sunday, which was yesterday. I've lived in several other provinces, but I think that is pretty much of a Newfoundland thing. Many of us have a big sit down meal every Sunday, so to change that tradition to a Monday once a year seems senseless.
The mainlanders are celebrating the taking in of the harvest and to thank god for the bountifulness of his blessings. Unless you consider stubby carrots and diseased potatoes to be gifts from above, then it is my feeling that we Newfs are most thankful for the family and friends who are able to join us for each and every meal we have. It doesn't matter whether it's meat and potatoes, toutons, fish and brewis, cod tongues, caplin or weiners and beans, the company makes the meal. I've always hated to cook for just myself or to eat alone. There's something sad about that.
The Yanks have their Thanksgiving Day in November because their better weather means they don't take in the crops until many of us Canadians are knee deep in snow. I'm not sure if our American friends are actually celebrating the harvest or whether the fact that the Mayflower landed the Pilgrims on the continent rather than on the desolate, wind swept piece of rock called the New Found Land. Can you imagine if the Pilgrims had that famous meal while sitting with our Beothucks, instead of the Wampanoag Indians, way back in 1621? Turkeys would have been able to rest easy for the past 400 years. The animal that would symbolize Thanksgiving and grace every table in North America would be whatever one it is that gives us that delicious salt meat. In reality, it wouldn't really matter what animal we choose to "honour", as long as our Thanksgiving Day feast includes some type of meat. Even pigeon or squirrel would taste awesome, just as long as it comes with a beverage and just as long as that beverage is gravy.
Time to go, Mudder's cooking a feed of hash. I'm so thankful I live in Newfoundland.
My now deceased father-in-law, Ron, was famous for floating his hefty plateful of food in a sea of gravy. He was given considerable teasing about that at every sit down. Inevitably, someone would exclaim "Hey Ron, gravy is not a beverage, ya know." I'm not one who should be throwing stones when my plate is also made of glass. Actually, when ever there's a feed, a prefer to opt for the plate with the sideboards. It probably looks more like a huge bowl, something that could easily be used to bathe an infant or two. Anything cooked in a pot with salt meat and then smothered with gravy deserves to be eaten in abundance and I'm only happy to oblige.
In Canada, our official Thanksgiving Day is always the second Monday of October. Everyone I know actually celebrated by eating the turkey and fixins on Sunday, which was yesterday. I've lived in several other provinces, but I think that is pretty much of a Newfoundland thing. Many of us have a big sit down meal every Sunday, so to change that tradition to a Monday once a year seems senseless.
The mainlanders are celebrating the taking in of the harvest and to thank god for the bountifulness of his blessings. Unless you consider stubby carrots and diseased potatoes to be gifts from above, then it is my feeling that we Newfs are most thankful for the family and friends who are able to join us for each and every meal we have. It doesn't matter whether it's meat and potatoes, toutons, fish and brewis, cod tongues, caplin or weiners and beans, the company makes the meal. I've always hated to cook for just myself or to eat alone. There's something sad about that.
The Yanks have their Thanksgiving Day in November because their better weather means they don't take in the crops until many of us Canadians are knee deep in snow. I'm not sure if our American friends are actually celebrating the harvest or whether the fact that the Mayflower landed the Pilgrims on the continent rather than on the desolate, wind swept piece of rock called the New Found Land. Can you imagine if the Pilgrims had that famous meal while sitting with our Beothucks, instead of the Wampanoag Indians, way back in 1621? Turkeys would have been able to rest easy for the past 400 years. The animal that would symbolize Thanksgiving and grace every table in North America would be whatever one it is that gives us that delicious salt meat. In reality, it wouldn't really matter what animal we choose to "honour", as long as our Thanksgiving Day feast includes some type of meat. Even pigeon or squirrel would taste awesome, just as long as it comes with a beverage and just as long as that beverage is gravy.
Time to go, Mudder's cooking a feed of hash. I'm so thankful I live in Newfoundland.
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
A Good Idea Gets Beached
I wouldn't want to be accused of leaving any of my loyal readers hanging on the edge of a cliff. I mean "hanging" in the literary sense, not the literal definition. I owe you the courtesy of revealing how yesterday ended for me. In my story of that day, entitled Loving to Write and Writing to Love, I attempted to predict that simply sharing my emotions with my wife would endear her to share her goodies with me. I also predicted that if my true intentions were discovered, then I'd likely have a long and restful night's sleep. Much to my surprise, it seems my dear wife read my story prior to retiring last evening, so the cat was out of the bag. Suffice to say that I am feeling very rested today. I have lots of pent up love to dedicate to today's story.
The summer of 2011 was almost one that never was. Our Eastern Newfoundland weather was more early springlike in July and much of August that they were renamed to Junly and Smogust. Even the caplin waited weeks longer than normal before hitting our beaches in their annual ritual to mate, sunbathe and to foul the pristine shoreline. Those fish are no fools. The calendar means nothing to them. Mother Nature must first provide the perfect conditions before they will spring into action. Come to think of it, we humans seem to like doing those same three things that the caplin do.
The beaches near my home were eerily desolate for much of the summer. Once the warmer weather ascended on us, the beaches were a beehive of activity. There were sun worshippers covered in baby oil, others donning wide brimmed hats and lotion with a SPF number so high that it could be confused with our national debt.
Any evening that the weather permitted, the local beaches were peppered with small fires. They were often used to boil the pot of salt water that would become the final resting place of many a lobster and crab. A bitter irony for these crustaceans that their end was met so close to the ocean and the freedom that it offered. No outdoor fire is complete without marshmallow being toasted just above the red and orange embers. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire may be in a famous jingle, but marshmallows toasting on a beach fire elicits a more powerful image for kids of the 20th and 21st centuries. Chestnuts are just too hard to poke with a stick anyway.
Ultimately, a beach fire provides the warmth and comfort needed on just about every summer night on our enchanted island. Especially on the ocean's edge, the night air is refreshingly cool and salty in flavour. The darkness of the night is made pitch black by the flickering light from the flames. It becomes so peaceful and tranquil that it lends perfectly to cuddling with your young kids, your partner, or everyone all at once. These memories become etched in the mind and forever bring smiles when we take the time to remember.
Wow, I'm even captivated by my own writing. I can almost feel the flames flickering at my face. I can feel the warmth of Lynda and my kids, Kendall and Avery, as we sit together building our smores and having the chocolate melt all over our fingers. I hear the crackling fire, the sonic sound of the waves dancing on the shore and rolling the round rocks over and over and the playing of a guitar from a neighbouring fire further down the beach. My senses are alive. I don't want this feeling to end.
I live just minutes from beautiful beaches that have everything that I just described. I ask myself why has it been years since I've gone there for an evening beach fire? I'm still adrift in my seductively sensory world when the answer hits me squarely in the face or should I say, in the nose. The beach stinks. Those frigging caplin always overstay their welcome and millions of them end up rotting on the beaches. Not even the ravenous gulls care to partake in the smorgasbord, as there are plenty of fresh ones to be had just offshore. In the words of rocker, Alanis Morissette - "Isn't it ironic, don't you think?" Just as the weather improves enough to make a trip to the beach possible, the caplin beat us to the punch. It seems that Mother Nature is playing games with us and getting her kicks at our expense. Just for that Mother N, we'll continue to have our fires in our backyard and no, we won't be sharing our smores with you.
The summer of 2011 was almost one that never was. Our Eastern Newfoundland weather was more early springlike in July and much of August that they were renamed to Junly and Smogust. Even the caplin waited weeks longer than normal before hitting our beaches in their annual ritual to mate, sunbathe and to foul the pristine shoreline. Those fish are no fools. The calendar means nothing to them. Mother Nature must first provide the perfect conditions before they will spring into action. Come to think of it, we humans seem to like doing those same three things that the caplin do.
The beaches near my home were eerily desolate for much of the summer. Once the warmer weather ascended on us, the beaches were a beehive of activity. There were sun worshippers covered in baby oil, others donning wide brimmed hats and lotion with a SPF number so high that it could be confused with our national debt.
Any evening that the weather permitted, the local beaches were peppered with small fires. They were often used to boil the pot of salt water that would become the final resting place of many a lobster and crab. A bitter irony for these crustaceans that their end was met so close to the ocean and the freedom that it offered. No outdoor fire is complete without marshmallow being toasted just above the red and orange embers. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire may be in a famous jingle, but marshmallows toasting on a beach fire elicits a more powerful image for kids of the 20th and 21st centuries. Chestnuts are just too hard to poke with a stick anyway.
Ultimately, a beach fire provides the warmth and comfort needed on just about every summer night on our enchanted island. Especially on the ocean's edge, the night air is refreshingly cool and salty in flavour. The darkness of the night is made pitch black by the flickering light from the flames. It becomes so peaceful and tranquil that it lends perfectly to cuddling with your young kids, your partner, or everyone all at once. These memories become etched in the mind and forever bring smiles when we take the time to remember.
Wow, I'm even captivated by my own writing. I can almost feel the flames flickering at my face. I can feel the warmth of Lynda and my kids, Kendall and Avery, as we sit together building our smores and having the chocolate melt all over our fingers. I hear the crackling fire, the sonic sound of the waves dancing on the shore and rolling the round rocks over and over and the playing of a guitar from a neighbouring fire further down the beach. My senses are alive. I don't want this feeling to end.
I live just minutes from beautiful beaches that have everything that I just described. I ask myself why has it been years since I've gone there for an evening beach fire? I'm still adrift in my seductively sensory world when the answer hits me squarely in the face or should I say, in the nose. The beach stinks. Those frigging caplin always overstay their welcome and millions of them end up rotting on the beaches. Not even the ravenous gulls care to partake in the smorgasbord, as there are plenty of fresh ones to be had just offshore. In the words of rocker, Alanis Morissette - "Isn't it ironic, don't you think?" Just as the weather improves enough to make a trip to the beach possible, the caplin beat us to the punch. It seems that Mother Nature is playing games with us and getting her kicks at our expense. Just for that Mother N, we'll continue to have our fires in our backyard and no, we won't be sharing our smores with you.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Loving to Write and Writing to Love
My wife, Lynda, seldom comments on any of the stories that I write. I quiz her from time-to-time, so I'm pretty certain that she reads most of them. Even by my standards, I thought my last story, In Defence of Fruits, was a little "out there". I asked my life partner what she thought and the reviews weren't too good. Apparently there will be no Pulitzer Prize coming my way any time soon.
I only half listened to her constructive criticism because, dress it up any way you want, it is still criticism. It also seems that the person you love most in this world is the one least likely to sugar coat anything that is said to you. There's none of - "It was interesting, but it wasn't the type of story that I like." Nor has there been anything like - "Perhaps more alliteration would spice things up, but I really loved the ending." As we come up to twenty years of marital bliss, the need to preserve feelings has long since passed. Even if Lynda did sing the praises of my literary offerings, it is quite possible that I would miss her comments because, as I mentioned, we husbands have a tendency to only half listen.
I think Lynda may have said something along the lines of how I should just stick to what I do best. I'm not sure if she meant to just write about things going on in my life or whether that was a subtle hint that I should consider taking a permanent hiatus from pretending to be a writer. Since I "retired" a year ago from my work of twenty one years, Lynda has been unquestionably supportive of my efforts to find myself. In writing, I have discovered something that is both enjoyable and thought provoking. Lynda's misgivings about that career choice may stem from the fact that the pay hasn't exactly added to our family's net worth ever since I began spitting out my stories this past January. I guess my options have come down to a choice between finding a so called real job or living a more exciting life that will captivate my readers and cause them to want to shower me with money. Hmmm, I hear McDonald's is hiring.
If writing is not what I do best, then I wonder what else it could be? To be honest, I haven't a clue. If I did, then I would no longer need to find myself, as I would have been found.
I wonder what Lynda would consider to be "what Jim does best"? I think I will ask her that question tonight after we go to bed. Lynda will certainly be impressed that I want to have such a deep and personal conversation. She will be excited that I am making an effort to connect on such an emotional level. Of course, as a man, I'm all for making my life partner excited about anything. Also, as a man, I'll only be half listening to anything she says anyway. I'll be doing a lot of nodding and "ah hum"ing. With any luck, the excitement will serve its intention and we'll both work on making Jim better at something he really loves to do. If that happens, then tomorrow I'll have something really good to write about. (That is, only if Lynda doesn't read this. At least not until tomorrow.)
I only half listened to her constructive criticism because, dress it up any way you want, it is still criticism. It also seems that the person you love most in this world is the one least likely to sugar coat anything that is said to you. There's none of - "It was interesting, but it wasn't the type of story that I like." Nor has there been anything like - "Perhaps more alliteration would spice things up, but I really loved the ending." As we come up to twenty years of marital bliss, the need to preserve feelings has long since passed. Even if Lynda did sing the praises of my literary offerings, it is quite possible that I would miss her comments because, as I mentioned, we husbands have a tendency to only half listen.
I think Lynda may have said something along the lines of how I should just stick to what I do best. I'm not sure if she meant to just write about things going on in my life or whether that was a subtle hint that I should consider taking a permanent hiatus from pretending to be a writer. Since I "retired" a year ago from my work of twenty one years, Lynda has been unquestionably supportive of my efforts to find myself. In writing, I have discovered something that is both enjoyable and thought provoking. Lynda's misgivings about that career choice may stem from the fact that the pay hasn't exactly added to our family's net worth ever since I began spitting out my stories this past January. I guess my options have come down to a choice between finding a so called real job or living a more exciting life that will captivate my readers and cause them to want to shower me with money. Hmmm, I hear McDonald's is hiring.
If writing is not what I do best, then I wonder what else it could be? To be honest, I haven't a clue. If I did, then I would no longer need to find myself, as I would have been found.
I wonder what Lynda would consider to be "what Jim does best"? I think I will ask her that question tonight after we go to bed. Lynda will certainly be impressed that I want to have such a deep and personal conversation. She will be excited that I am making an effort to connect on such an emotional level. Of course, as a man, I'm all for making my life partner excited about anything. Also, as a man, I'll only be half listening to anything she says anyway. I'll be doing a lot of nodding and "ah hum"ing. With any luck, the excitement will serve its intention and we'll both work on making Jim better at something he really loves to do. If that happens, then tomorrow I'll have something really good to write about. (That is, only if Lynda doesn't read this. At least not until tomorrow.)
Friday, September 30, 2011
In Defence of Fruits
It's not good to be a fruit these days. The news headlines are rampant with reports of fruits upsetting the fabric of North American society. Fruits have been amongst us since .... well, forever. Fruits have never harmed anyone and it's time that I have my say and set the record straight.
It is the actions and ignorance of a few misguided people that have served to give rise to the ground swell of negativity against certain types of fruits. Not all fruits suffer from the same prejudice. Most fruits go about their business and cause little or no waves. They add to the flavour and well being of society. Fruits enrich us personally and are an essential ingredient to living a balanced and healthy existence.
From time to time, as is the case right now, certain events take place that serve to place fruits in the lime light. In most instances, the stories are positive in nature and serve to increase our knowledge and acceptance of having all types of fruits in our lives. The stories that are in vogue right now cast fruits in a negative role. These particular fruits are inherently good and well meaning. It is in the way the facts are being presented that tends to put more weight on the specific characteristics of the these fruits versus concentrating more on the essence of the behaviour that resulted in the fruits becoming involved in the first place.
What I am saying is that the fact they are fruits really has no bearing on the moral fabric of the story or on the societal issues that have reared their ugly heads. It is too easy to lose sight of the real issue at hand and to use the mere presence of the fruit to cloud and confuse the questions that need to be answered. The fruits become have become scapegoats for our failing, reluctance or inability to deal with the more difficult and pressing problems that have been presented and need to be addressed.
Be it the ground hugging cantaloupe of the New England area or the easily bruised banana from London, Ontario, fruits are being unfairly labelled and criticized. Is it the fault of the cantaloupe that food handlers were ignorant and uneducated about germ control and may have failed to wash their hands? Is it the fault of the banana that a solitary hockey spectator is so blinded by prejudice that he choose to toss one at a player, who is black?
My message is loud and clear - LEAVE THE FRUITS ALONE. Instead, concentrate on the true essence of the message that is being broadcast by these incidents, which is human ignorance and prejudice.
About the author:
The writer, Jim Nixon, is a husband, father and believer in the continued evolution of mankind as a species of acceptance and foresight. He likes all types of fruit.
It is the actions and ignorance of a few misguided people that have served to give rise to the ground swell of negativity against certain types of fruits. Not all fruits suffer from the same prejudice. Most fruits go about their business and cause little or no waves. They add to the flavour and well being of society. Fruits enrich us personally and are an essential ingredient to living a balanced and healthy existence.
From time to time, as is the case right now, certain events take place that serve to place fruits in the lime light. In most instances, the stories are positive in nature and serve to increase our knowledge and acceptance of having all types of fruits in our lives. The stories that are in vogue right now cast fruits in a negative role. These particular fruits are inherently good and well meaning. It is in the way the facts are being presented that tends to put more weight on the specific characteristics of the these fruits versus concentrating more on the essence of the behaviour that resulted in the fruits becoming involved in the first place.
What I am saying is that the fact they are fruits really has no bearing on the moral fabric of the story or on the societal issues that have reared their ugly heads. It is too easy to lose sight of the real issue at hand and to use the mere presence of the fruit to cloud and confuse the questions that need to be answered. The fruits become have become scapegoats for our failing, reluctance or inability to deal with the more difficult and pressing problems that have been presented and need to be addressed.
Be it the ground hugging cantaloupe of the New England area or the easily bruised banana from London, Ontario, fruits are being unfairly labelled and criticized. Is it the fault of the cantaloupe that food handlers were ignorant and uneducated about germ control and may have failed to wash their hands? Is it the fault of the banana that a solitary hockey spectator is so blinded by prejudice that he choose to toss one at a player, who is black?
My message is loud and clear - LEAVE THE FRUITS ALONE. Instead, concentrate on the true essence of the message that is being broadcast by these incidents, which is human ignorance and prejudice.
About the author:
The writer, Jim Nixon, is a husband, father and believer in the continued evolution of mankind as a species of acceptance and foresight. He likes all types of fruit.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
News To Me
I hate "the news". News is nothing more than information that is whacked out on crack cocaine. In that state, it adds little to the betterment of our society. News is to knowledge as the Newfoundland moose is to nutrition. Neither news nor the moose is absolutely necessary. Sure, they provide a little entertainment value and a few jobs, but in the big picture they probably do more harm than good. The comedic group, Buddy Wasisname's lovable character, Dicky Shea - The Townie Politician, had it right. "Get rid of the moose. Wipe'em out. What good are they? They don't pay taxes and they don't buy tickets to the Leaf games". He may of had 500,000 supporters had his next political pronouncement not have been that all of the baymen should be forced to move from the outports and live in the small spaces between the houses of the new developments in St. John's and Mount Pearl. Fiscally, he figured it was a wise move. When pressed about the infrastructure costs related to adding so many people to the suburbs, he replied it wasn't a problem - "The baymen can shit in the woods." Now that would be news worthy.
I'm a seeker of information. Information is knowledge and knowledge is power. Our daily newspaper, radio stations and TV news programs provide little in the way of useful information. The fact that a steroid junkie lost his cool and beat up a guy during a road rage incident is not information that increases my knowledge. The fact that a high profile St. John's lawyer seems to have an unusual relationship with a client in no way serves to make me smarter. These type of stories belong in the trashy gossip magazines. Wouldn't really useful information be something along the lines of: Which lawyer has the best chances of getting me off, even when I'm guilty? How about knowing which Judges are the softies and which ones will nail you to the wall. Surely there are statistics available for all of this type of stuff. Aren't these the things that people would benefit from knowing?
Our economy is often front and center on the news. The debate is raging about whether we are presently in a recession or will we soon fall into one. Some wind bag will appear on the tube or be quoted in the paper and provide a technical analysis of our GDP and the direction of the10 year T-bill rate. Who, the frig, cares! How one chooses to define our economy has absolutely no bearing on whether you can put food on the table and provide a good future for your family. What these educated financial geniuses think about the prospects of a repeat of a 1930's style recession is nothing more than one person's opinion. We all know the famous expression about opinions (if you don't, then I'm about to share) - Opinions are like ass-holes... everybody has one.
I was somewhat more vulgar today than usual. I apologize for that. Perhaps I am a little miffed that a major story these last few days has been that a yet-to-be named resident of Newfoundlander has won $21 million in last Saturday's 6-49 draw. By my definition, that is not news. That story does not provide me with any useful information or add to my knowledge of anything. It is a waste of good newsprint and of airtime.
If I had won the $21 million, then I would put the money to good use. I would start a 6 o'clock broadcast on TV that would be chalked full of real information and educational stories that bestow useful knowledge to the viewers of our fair province. I would call it the "Hour of Power". I would want to have a popular and well known face in front of the camera, so I'd try to get Dicky Shea to be the anchorman. Politicians would be allowed on the program only if they left their opinions at home. Rather than have one mindless politician after another on the program, like the present news shows do, it would probably be more informative to interview the despised moose to see how it has been coping with being #1 on the province's hit list. Another good story would be to investigate the health consequences of the mounds of human feces showing up in the woods surrounding the metro area. Pictures could be obtained to show how it gets "dumped" there. On second thought..... maybe too much knowledge is not such a good thing after all.
I'm a seeker of information. Information is knowledge and knowledge is power. Our daily newspaper, radio stations and TV news programs provide little in the way of useful information. The fact that a steroid junkie lost his cool and beat up a guy during a road rage incident is not information that increases my knowledge. The fact that a high profile St. John's lawyer seems to have an unusual relationship with a client in no way serves to make me smarter. These type of stories belong in the trashy gossip magazines. Wouldn't really useful information be something along the lines of: Which lawyer has the best chances of getting me off, even when I'm guilty? How about knowing which Judges are the softies and which ones will nail you to the wall. Surely there are statistics available for all of this type of stuff. Aren't these the things that people would benefit from knowing?
Our economy is often front and center on the news. The debate is raging about whether we are presently in a recession or will we soon fall into one. Some wind bag will appear on the tube or be quoted in the paper and provide a technical analysis of our GDP and the direction of the10 year T-bill rate. Who, the frig, cares! How one chooses to define our economy has absolutely no bearing on whether you can put food on the table and provide a good future for your family. What these educated financial geniuses think about the prospects of a repeat of a 1930's style recession is nothing more than one person's opinion. We all know the famous expression about opinions (if you don't, then I'm about to share) - Opinions are like ass-holes... everybody has one.
I was somewhat more vulgar today than usual. I apologize for that. Perhaps I am a little miffed that a major story these last few days has been that a yet-to-be named resident of Newfoundlander has won $21 million in last Saturday's 6-49 draw. By my definition, that is not news. That story does not provide me with any useful information or add to my knowledge of anything. It is a waste of good newsprint and of airtime.
If I had won the $21 million, then I would put the money to good use. I would start a 6 o'clock broadcast on TV that would be chalked full of real information and educational stories that bestow useful knowledge to the viewers of our fair province. I would call it the "Hour of Power". I would want to have a popular and well known face in front of the camera, so I'd try to get Dicky Shea to be the anchorman. Politicians would be allowed on the program only if they left their opinions at home. Rather than have one mindless politician after another on the program, like the present news shows do, it would probably be more informative to interview the despised moose to see how it has been coping with being #1 on the province's hit list. Another good story would be to investigate the health consequences of the mounds of human feces showing up in the woods surrounding the metro area. Pictures could be obtained to show how it gets "dumped" there. On second thought..... maybe too much knowledge is not such a good thing after all.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Coloured By Numbers
My dog sees the world much clearer than I do. Apparently dogs cannot see colours, but take in the visual world in shades of grey only. The fact that there are an infinite number of shades of grey means that Jasper's perceptions of reality are probably not too far removed from the true pictures being transmitted. He likely sees a bright red as a bright grey, while a very light yellow colour probably is just a tad removed from whitish grey.
The canine world has never observed colour, so they can't miss what they've never had. When Jasper looks at a rainbow all he sees are semicircular shades of grey that supposedly lead to a pot of grey coins. I doubt he even cares about the rainbow or its mystical bounty and I bet he can never quite understand his master's fascination with those things. I learned in elementary school that a rainbow also holds the secret of the colours of the spectrum. I have never forgotten that ROY G BIV lives inside every rainbow no matter where in the world it may be - Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Indigo Violet. They are beautiful.
Colour is everywhere. It has come to symbolize moods (red = anger), gender (pink = female), the environment (green = eco-friendly), and the rainbow itself is the symbol of the gay and lesbian movement. I know these colours are out there. I sense them. I'm just not sure that I completely comprehend and appreciate them. You see, I've always known that I have a tendency to see everything in only two colours, either black or white. As a result, I often see only only two solutions to a problem, two outcomes to a situation, two courses of action from which to choose, you are either someone I like or you are not, you are a good person or you're not, you are a team player or you're not.
I'm not certain why I'm like this. Perhaps it is a means to simplify a complicated world. This is not necessarily a positive thing. I tend to limit my options too quickly, I see people as being one way or another and don't allow for the prospect of change in those I have preordained.
I actually started this story thinking about how numbers are the essence of black & white thinking. A number is a finite thing, it is quantifiable and unquestionable in its value. It is what it is. Despite this, numbers always seem to come with a secondary meaning attached. This meaning is what colours the numbers and makes them so confusing. The confusion only grows when numbers are manipulated. Let me show you an example: In 1989 I was 185 pounds. Today I am 235 pounds. (I'm not fat, I'm just short for my weight.) I have gained 50 pounds. That sounds brutal and it is, but let's look at it another way. In 22 years I have gained an average of 2 1/4 pounds a year. Now that doesn't sound too bad. Put another way, I've put on 3 ounces a month. That's represented by a couple of Timbits. Losing weight is going to be easy when I frame it using those numbers. If I cut back on those Timbits and throw in a bag of chips or two, then the weight will just fall off of me. If I lose just 10 pounds a year, when I'm 66 I'll be 35 pounds. If I'm going to be that thin, then I'd better play it safe and not cut back on the chips.
I'll continue to work at being more open minded and to appreciate the abundance of colourful people that make up our world. I'll also continue to observe Jasper and try to learn a little more about how our non-judgemental canine friends have flourished despite being colour blind. Forgive me if I happen to invade your personal space in the coming days and weeks. Getting a good sniff seems to help dogs to form an accurate opinion of people. I'll try to avoid getting too close to your crotch, but I make no promises. So please follow the advice of your mothers and always wear clean underwear. The colour of them doesn't matter.
The canine world has never observed colour, so they can't miss what they've never had. When Jasper looks at a rainbow all he sees are semicircular shades of grey that supposedly lead to a pot of grey coins. I doubt he even cares about the rainbow or its mystical bounty and I bet he can never quite understand his master's fascination with those things. I learned in elementary school that a rainbow also holds the secret of the colours of the spectrum. I have never forgotten that ROY G BIV lives inside every rainbow no matter where in the world it may be - Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Indigo Violet. They are beautiful.
Colour is everywhere. It has come to symbolize moods (red = anger), gender (pink = female), the environment (green = eco-friendly), and the rainbow itself is the symbol of the gay and lesbian movement. I know these colours are out there. I sense them. I'm just not sure that I completely comprehend and appreciate them. You see, I've always known that I have a tendency to see everything in only two colours, either black or white. As a result, I often see only only two solutions to a problem, two outcomes to a situation, two courses of action from which to choose, you are either someone I like or you are not, you are a good person or you're not, you are a team player or you're not.
I'm not certain why I'm like this. Perhaps it is a means to simplify a complicated world. This is not necessarily a positive thing. I tend to limit my options too quickly, I see people as being one way or another and don't allow for the prospect of change in those I have preordained.
I actually started this story thinking about how numbers are the essence of black & white thinking. A number is a finite thing, it is quantifiable and unquestionable in its value. It is what it is. Despite this, numbers always seem to come with a secondary meaning attached. This meaning is what colours the numbers and makes them so confusing. The confusion only grows when numbers are manipulated. Let me show you an example: In 1989 I was 185 pounds. Today I am 235 pounds. (I'm not fat, I'm just short for my weight.) I have gained 50 pounds. That sounds brutal and it is, but let's look at it another way. In 22 years I have gained an average of 2 1/4 pounds a year. Now that doesn't sound too bad. Put another way, I've put on 3 ounces a month. That's represented by a couple of Timbits. Losing weight is going to be easy when I frame it using those numbers. If I cut back on those Timbits and throw in a bag of chips or two, then the weight will just fall off of me. If I lose just 10 pounds a year, when I'm 66 I'll be 35 pounds. If I'm going to be that thin, then I'd better play it safe and not cut back on the chips.
I'll continue to work at being more open minded and to appreciate the abundance of colourful people that make up our world. I'll also continue to observe Jasper and try to learn a little more about how our non-judgemental canine friends have flourished despite being colour blind. Forgive me if I happen to invade your personal space in the coming days and weeks. Getting a good sniff seems to help dogs to form an accurate opinion of people. I'll try to avoid getting too close to your crotch, but I make no promises. So please follow the advice of your mothers and always wear clean underwear. The colour of them doesn't matter.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Do You Know Moammar Nixon?
These past few months have seen the dramatic rise of democratic forces in several Middle Eastern countries. The citizens of Libya, Egypt and Syria have challenged the dictatorships that have ruled the political and social landscapes of these countries for decades. Freedom of choice and the rights of the individual have proven to be more powerful than the weapons of the loyalist armies and more fluid than the oil that flows so freely from the sands of these lands. No societal model is perfect, but one that discounts or marginalizes the populous is eventually doomed to failure. Tyrants can no longer count on citizens being ignorant and uneducated about the goings on of the world at large. Once a taste of freedom is savoured or even thought to be possible, people will choose the hard road every time in order to be able to sit at the table of democracy.
This serious, in tone, geopolitical preamble was necessary in order to bring me to the point of today's writing story. I'm usually not so cryptic. I think my 9 year old daughter may be an offspring of Moammar Khadafi, Hosni Muberek or Bashar al-Assad. It's not that she has any of their physical features - thank god for that - nor does she resort to torture in order to get her way. Well, not torture in the traditional sense. Avery is able to push my buttons with merely a look. As I peer into those wide, watery eyes, see the quivering lower lip and those way too adorable freckles, I'm left feeling like I deserve to spend the rest of my life getting stretched on the rack. Surely, for this child to feel such woe, then I must have done something unthinkable. The punishment must fit the crime. Khadafi and company failed to understand this fundamental principle and their empires crumbled because of it.
Before I banished myself to the dungeon or to remedial classes for dissident dads, then I had to find out what wrong I had perpetrated on my youngest offspring. If we do not take the time to understand the mistakes of our past, then we are bound to repeat them. There will come a time when the shoe will be on the other foot and I'll need someone to change my diaper and to comfort me at night with a story. I have but two children, so better not to alienate one of them so early in life, thereby greatly reducing my options for ageing gracefully and avoiding the old age home until I'm ready to go there. I doubt that Khadafi had such foresight or perhaps with tyranny comes the illusion of divinity. I am neither a tyrant nor divine, so keeping in the good books of my kids is my plan for ensuring bliss in my later years.
Avery told me that her angst was due to the fact that she does not like family meetings. OMG, she really does have a predisposition towards tyranny! A few months ago, I began to hold family meetings as I believed they were a great way for the kids to be included in the decision making process, for them to learn that their opinions matters and that it is important for them to speak their minds. Was Avery against the idea of having a say in her future? I was perplexed. It turns out I didn't have to wait long to find out. Yesterday, while Avery and I were struggling through grade 4 math homework (ok, I was the only one struggling), she blurted out that she no longer wanted to be involved in swim club and that she wanted to return to dance lessons. This was all a surprise to me. In fact, during one of our recent family meetings, the fall activity schedule was discussed at length with the kids and the decision was made to take a break from dance this year after seven years of ballet, tap and jazz. I suggested to Avery that we wait for mom to get home and we could then have a family meeting to discuss this. Immediately, the eyes watered, the lip quivered and the freckles freckled. A soft, broken, little girl voice declared "I don't like family meetings, they make me upset." I was back on the proverbial rack. What have I done to my sweet child to make something that was meant to be so good, come across as so bad? Time to re-evaluate.
I think I know what happened. Sure, the intent of our family meetings is to let the kids have a say, but in reality, Lynda and I had already decided what activities the kids would be joining this fall. As an example, we didn't want the kids to partake in dance any longer, so we weren't truly committed to listening to their suggestions. We took them down a road that they didn't want to travel. We muffled dissenting opinions. We ended our family meeting thinking that we had a consensus, but in reality, it was a consensus obtained fraudulently. We didn't mean for it to be that way and it is only as I write this that I see and understand what may have happened. It took a little while, but Avery figured it out. She figured it out before I did and opened my eyes. Even a nine year old knows when her freedom of expression has been suppressed. I'm proud of her for standing up for herself and articulating what she wants for her life. I said earlier that she may have some of the traits of a Middle Eastern dictator. If she has any, then I know where she gets them. Sometimes, her mother can be a real tyrant. Just kidding Honey.... really.... Ok, I know the routine...I'll strap myself myself to the rack when I get home.
This serious, in tone, geopolitical preamble was necessary in order to bring me to the point of today's writing story. I'm usually not so cryptic. I think my 9 year old daughter may be an offspring of Moammar Khadafi, Hosni Muberek or Bashar al-Assad. It's not that she has any of their physical features - thank god for that - nor does she resort to torture in order to get her way. Well, not torture in the traditional sense. Avery is able to push my buttons with merely a look. As I peer into those wide, watery eyes, see the quivering lower lip and those way too adorable freckles, I'm left feeling like I deserve to spend the rest of my life getting stretched on the rack. Surely, for this child to feel such woe, then I must have done something unthinkable. The punishment must fit the crime. Khadafi and company failed to understand this fundamental principle and their empires crumbled because of it.
Before I banished myself to the dungeon or to remedial classes for dissident dads, then I had to find out what wrong I had perpetrated on my youngest offspring. If we do not take the time to understand the mistakes of our past, then we are bound to repeat them. There will come a time when the shoe will be on the other foot and I'll need someone to change my diaper and to comfort me at night with a story. I have but two children, so better not to alienate one of them so early in life, thereby greatly reducing my options for ageing gracefully and avoiding the old age home until I'm ready to go there. I doubt that Khadafi had such foresight or perhaps with tyranny comes the illusion of divinity. I am neither a tyrant nor divine, so keeping in the good books of my kids is my plan for ensuring bliss in my later years.
Avery told me that her angst was due to the fact that she does not like family meetings. OMG, she really does have a predisposition towards tyranny! A few months ago, I began to hold family meetings as I believed they were a great way for the kids to be included in the decision making process, for them to learn that their opinions matters and that it is important for them to speak their minds. Was Avery against the idea of having a say in her future? I was perplexed. It turns out I didn't have to wait long to find out. Yesterday, while Avery and I were struggling through grade 4 math homework (ok, I was the only one struggling), she blurted out that she no longer wanted to be involved in swim club and that she wanted to return to dance lessons. This was all a surprise to me. In fact, during one of our recent family meetings, the fall activity schedule was discussed at length with the kids and the decision was made to take a break from dance this year after seven years of ballet, tap and jazz. I suggested to Avery that we wait for mom to get home and we could then have a family meeting to discuss this. Immediately, the eyes watered, the lip quivered and the freckles freckled. A soft, broken, little girl voice declared "I don't like family meetings, they make me upset." I was back on the proverbial rack. What have I done to my sweet child to make something that was meant to be so good, come across as so bad? Time to re-evaluate.
I think I know what happened. Sure, the intent of our family meetings is to let the kids have a say, but in reality, Lynda and I had already decided what activities the kids would be joining this fall. As an example, we didn't want the kids to partake in dance any longer, so we weren't truly committed to listening to their suggestions. We took them down a road that they didn't want to travel. We muffled dissenting opinions. We ended our family meeting thinking that we had a consensus, but in reality, it was a consensus obtained fraudulently. We didn't mean for it to be that way and it is only as I write this that I see and understand what may have happened. It took a little while, but Avery figured it out. She figured it out before I did and opened my eyes. Even a nine year old knows when her freedom of expression has been suppressed. I'm proud of her for standing up for herself and articulating what she wants for her life. I said earlier that she may have some of the traits of a Middle Eastern dictator. If she has any, then I know where she gets them. Sometimes, her mother can be a real tyrant. Just kidding Honey.... really.... Ok, I know the routine...I'll strap myself myself to the rack when I get home.
Friday, September 16, 2011
For Sale - One Worn Out Corpse
I'm afraid their may be something wrong with me and I'm really worried. I think I may be a hypochondriac.
In all seriousness, I've seen more than my share of doctors in the last four or five years. There's nothing majorly wrong with me, physically that is. It just seems that one after another, and sometimes all together, parts of this middle-aged body have gone a little haywire. I never considered myself an "um me" (as in "uuu me knee" or "uuu me head"), but maybe I need to re-evaluate that assertion. Perhaps I'm getting soft or perhaps these ailments are a natural function of the life I have led.
I'm reminded of the question regarding the best way to leave this world. The debate is whether it is better to die occupying a body that is in great shape because that person lived cautiously and safely or, when exhaling for the last time, should a person's body look more like mom's old Mazda Protege, with it's dents, cracks, and rusted out floor? In answering this question, we all respond the same way. We know that our bodies are no different than our houses, investments and the cash in our piggy banks. It doesn't matter whether we believe we will be spending eternity among the clouds, sweating it out in Hades, or in the arms of a hundred virgins. We can no more take our corpses with us to our final end than we can take our worldly treasures. If we get to "old age", whatever that is, given that 80 is the new 50, then our soulless bodies are of little use to anyone. A well preserved 100 year old body does not suddenly become valuable. It is not an antique to be collected, polished and put on display, but rather one to be pitied for the life that was not lived to the fullest.
If any of you think that you have lived a rather sheltered existence up to now, it is not too late. The best times of your life lay ahead of you. This is not a recommendation to suddenly go off the deep end and to do something rash, like quit your job. Very few of us need to do anything radical to start down the path towards a better life. Every journey begins with one small step. Having balance in life is the key component. A close friend of mine once put life in its true perspective and I have shared his words many times over the years. He said "Jimmy, enjoy life because you are dead for a long time."
I'm doing the best to heed my own advice. I'm 46 years old, so that's probably the new 25. If I'm really only 25, then I should probably get a nipple ring and a face tattoo. If I don't make it to old age, then I'm going to make damn sure that no one will want any part of my body. I may need it when I meet those 100 virgins.
In all seriousness, I've seen more than my share of doctors in the last four or five years. There's nothing majorly wrong with me, physically that is. It just seems that one after another, and sometimes all together, parts of this middle-aged body have gone a little haywire. I never considered myself an "um me" (as in "uuu me knee" or "uuu me head"), but maybe I need to re-evaluate that assertion. Perhaps I'm getting soft or perhaps these ailments are a natural function of the life I have led.
I'm reminded of the question regarding the best way to leave this world. The debate is whether it is better to die occupying a body that is in great shape because that person lived cautiously and safely or, when exhaling for the last time, should a person's body look more like mom's old Mazda Protege, with it's dents, cracks, and rusted out floor? In answering this question, we all respond the same way. We know that our bodies are no different than our houses, investments and the cash in our piggy banks. It doesn't matter whether we believe we will be spending eternity among the clouds, sweating it out in Hades, or in the arms of a hundred virgins. We can no more take our corpses with us to our final end than we can take our worldly treasures. If we get to "old age", whatever that is, given that 80 is the new 50, then our soulless bodies are of little use to anyone. A well preserved 100 year old body does not suddenly become valuable. It is not an antique to be collected, polished and put on display, but rather one to be pitied for the life that was not lived to the fullest.
If any of you think that you have lived a rather sheltered existence up to now, it is not too late. The best times of your life lay ahead of you. This is not a recommendation to suddenly go off the deep end and to do something rash, like quit your job. Very few of us need to do anything radical to start down the path towards a better life. Every journey begins with one small step. Having balance in life is the key component. A close friend of mine once put life in its true perspective and I have shared his words many times over the years. He said "Jimmy, enjoy life because you are dead for a long time."
I'm doing the best to heed my own advice. I'm 46 years old, so that's probably the new 25. If I'm really only 25, then I should probably get a nipple ring and a face tattoo. If I don't make it to old age, then I'm going to make damn sure that no one will want any part of my body. I may need it when I meet those 100 virgins.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Having a Job is my Vice
An ex-coworker and friend of Lynda's is in town for a few days and staying at a hotel in downtown St. John's. We used the excuse that it was a Tuesday night to ensure he wasn't trapped in his hotel room watching a Miami Vice marathon and having to endure the shouts and curses of the prostitutes peddling themselves. The hooker and john show takes place every evening at a corner or two in the east end of our fair city. To those of you with your heads in the sand, St. John's has it's vices too.
Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week. There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table. It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m. A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub. Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil. Some good though!
With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement." Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days. I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not. It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month. I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice? I'll have to get the union rep to check that out. I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.
Lynda has actually been extremely understanding. Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be. I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way. I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer. I'll stick with this job for a while. I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".
My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children. Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion. He plays not because he has to but because he wants to. Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about. I love witnessing that in people.
It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed. We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners. It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations. We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows. It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate. I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami. I can be patient. I have all night.... I'm retired, again.
Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week. There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table. It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m. A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub. Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil. Some good though!
With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement." Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days. I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not. It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month. I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice? I'll have to get the union rep to check that out. I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.
Lynda has actually been extremely understanding. Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be. I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way. I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer. I'll stick with this job for a while. I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".
My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children. Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion. He plays not because he has to but because he wants to. Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about. I love witnessing that in people.
It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed. We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners. It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations. We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows. It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate. I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami. I can be patient. I have all night.... I'm retired, again.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Baseball, Sombreros and Feelings
I had a rough morning at work. Actually, this morning's episode was the culmination of several weeks of letting my mind wander out to left field. For you non baseball aficionados, left field is where the weakest player usually ends up. That player has the shortest throws to 3rd base and the shortstop, usually the best athlete on the team, is able to get to the balls that are heading to the short left field area. The left fielder can often be seen picking clovers or admiring the shapes being made by the passing clouds. Thus, being out in left field is synonymous with someone who just doesn't have his or her head in the game - they often are in an alternate reality.
Sounds like any of us could be in the major leagues, but even the left fielder has to come to bat at some time during the game. There's nowhere to hide when you're at the plate and the pitcher is winding up. Being a good hitter is as much about confidence and mental preparation as it is about strength, coordination and technique. Perhaps the attributes required of a 300 hitter are the same as for the enjoyment of life. In many respects, like baseball, life is a game. The more we are able to keep things in perspective and realize that we control how we feel about ourselves and our lives, then the better we will be at playing that most important of all games - life. (That's a small l, although my kids really love Life, the board game too. Grown ups run for cover whenever it comes out of the cupboard, either because it takes too long to play or because it reminds of us too much of paths not taken.)
I retired from the RCMP a year ago in order to preserve my mental health or, more accurately, what was left of it. At the end of my career I felt like a baseball player who had already struck out three times in a single game and was stepping to the plate for the forth time against a flame throwing southpaw. Every day, as I headed into the office, I believed the prospects of a fourth strike out, thereby earning the inglorious golden sombrero, loomed large. Negative experience after negative experience clouded out anything that was good about being a cop. I became afraid to make a mistake. I found it tedious to even think about taking the bat off of my shoulder. I became a left fielder who couldn't hit. There was no place for me to hide or be hidden. I went to the bench and warmed it for a while. I evened tried pinch hitting, but the magic never returned. I considered myself washed up. My contract was bought out. I was only too happy to go.
Time is the supposed healer of all. I think this is often true, especially for illnesses of the mind. In some cases though, healing appears to have occurred, but in reality it is only because the passage of time plays tricks on our memories. It is the human tendency to see the past while wearing rose coloured glasses. That would explain why so may athletes attempt comebacks long after the sun has set on their careers. A few months or years removed from the routine and rigors that permeated their lives for decades makes them believe that they can run just as fast as ever, that they are smarter than before, and that they can still catch up to the 95 mile per hour fastball. In reality, few, if any, ever get back the ability or the glory. Despite this fact, every year, there are those amongst us who make the attempt.
I was (am) one of these hopefuls. Four weeks ago I began a temporary job with the province doing regulatory enforcement for the financial services industry, which is comprised of those companies and individuals who are involved in real estate, insurance, and securities. In my mind it was sort of a "cop lite" situation, similar but calorie reduced, so it would be better for me. It would have a similar flavour as policing, but would likely not have the same degree of stressors that gave me such a bad taste at the end of my career. In any event, my term would expire at the end of March and I could then walk away knowing I had fulfilled my obligation.
The first four weeks have been like baseball's spring training. I have slowly been working the cobwebs out and have shaken the rust from the part of my investigator's brain that has been dormant for many months. It has been good to get back into the field and once again toss the ball around with my teammates at my new office. There has been no pressure to put up numbers. For four weeks I have been the Babe Ruth of batting practice, as I easily handled everything thrown my way. As you know, batting practice fastballs are not fast at all. Even chasing down fly balls in left field is easy when it's not in a game situation.
Today was opening day. This morning, I was to commence an investigation involving some possible wrong doing by people in the financial services sector. It was to be my first plate appearance in my first real game since I started on the come back trail. I froze. Worse than that.... the bat was shaking so much in my hands that I could not hold it, let alone think about taking a swing and making contact. The not-so-good memories of my time as a cop returned with a vengeance. I was not ready for the negative emotion that came along with the memories. These feelings are powerful and oh so real. For the last number of years when I was a police officer, I had a recurring dream that I was in a dangerous situation and needed to fire my gun at a bad guy. No matter how hard I tried, I could never muster the strength of actually pull the trigger. The dream would always focus in on my hand and my gun and I would be left wondering why I couldn't do something so simple and that I was so good at in practice. My dream never went any further to explore what happened to me or the bad guy. I never really find out if I'm shooting my gun to save only myself or someone else as well. When I left the RCMP last year, that dream stopped. As I reflect to write this story, I realize that it returned last night.
I've been told by a person, who should know, that dreams don't mean anything. I've also been told by a person, who does know, that I must first deal with the feelings that I am experiencing because of my new job and that dealing with the specifics of the job are secondary to that. Well, where do I start? I have feelings of here we go again, disappointing my family, of anger towards people at my new office, of being trapped in a job that I hate, uncertainty about what my career future will be or should be, guilt for seeming not to have made any progress in my self-understanding during the past three years, and about contributing and bringing enough money home so my family's quality of life is not adversely affected. I want my life to be filled with happiness and worth. I think(?) I need a job that has those qualities as well and is not simply a place where I go for 40 hours a week or is used as a means to an end. Is that unrealistic? Perhaps I'm dreaming. Maybe I've spent way too much time in left field. Maybe I like the view from there.
Sounds like any of us could be in the major leagues, but even the left fielder has to come to bat at some time during the game. There's nowhere to hide when you're at the plate and the pitcher is winding up. Being a good hitter is as much about confidence and mental preparation as it is about strength, coordination and technique. Perhaps the attributes required of a 300 hitter are the same as for the enjoyment of life. In many respects, like baseball, life is a game. The more we are able to keep things in perspective and realize that we control how we feel about ourselves and our lives, then the better we will be at playing that most important of all games - life. (That's a small l, although my kids really love Life, the board game too. Grown ups run for cover whenever it comes out of the cupboard, either because it takes too long to play or because it reminds of us too much of paths not taken.)
I retired from the RCMP a year ago in order to preserve my mental health or, more accurately, what was left of it. At the end of my career I felt like a baseball player who had already struck out three times in a single game and was stepping to the plate for the forth time against a flame throwing southpaw. Every day, as I headed into the office, I believed the prospects of a fourth strike out, thereby earning the inglorious golden sombrero, loomed large. Negative experience after negative experience clouded out anything that was good about being a cop. I became afraid to make a mistake. I found it tedious to even think about taking the bat off of my shoulder. I became a left fielder who couldn't hit. There was no place for me to hide or be hidden. I went to the bench and warmed it for a while. I evened tried pinch hitting, but the magic never returned. I considered myself washed up. My contract was bought out. I was only too happy to go.
Time is the supposed healer of all. I think this is often true, especially for illnesses of the mind. In some cases though, healing appears to have occurred, but in reality it is only because the passage of time plays tricks on our memories. It is the human tendency to see the past while wearing rose coloured glasses. That would explain why so may athletes attempt comebacks long after the sun has set on their careers. A few months or years removed from the routine and rigors that permeated their lives for decades makes them believe that they can run just as fast as ever, that they are smarter than before, and that they can still catch up to the 95 mile per hour fastball. In reality, few, if any, ever get back the ability or the glory. Despite this fact, every year, there are those amongst us who make the attempt.
I was (am) one of these hopefuls. Four weeks ago I began a temporary job with the province doing regulatory enforcement for the financial services industry, which is comprised of those companies and individuals who are involved in real estate, insurance, and securities. In my mind it was sort of a "cop lite" situation, similar but calorie reduced, so it would be better for me. It would have a similar flavour as policing, but would likely not have the same degree of stressors that gave me such a bad taste at the end of my career. In any event, my term would expire at the end of March and I could then walk away knowing I had fulfilled my obligation.
The first four weeks have been like baseball's spring training. I have slowly been working the cobwebs out and have shaken the rust from the part of my investigator's brain that has been dormant for many months. It has been good to get back into the field and once again toss the ball around with my teammates at my new office. There has been no pressure to put up numbers. For four weeks I have been the Babe Ruth of batting practice, as I easily handled everything thrown my way. As you know, batting practice fastballs are not fast at all. Even chasing down fly balls in left field is easy when it's not in a game situation.
Today was opening day. This morning, I was to commence an investigation involving some possible wrong doing by people in the financial services sector. It was to be my first plate appearance in my first real game since I started on the come back trail. I froze. Worse than that.... the bat was shaking so much in my hands that I could not hold it, let alone think about taking a swing and making contact. The not-so-good memories of my time as a cop returned with a vengeance. I was not ready for the negative emotion that came along with the memories. These feelings are powerful and oh so real. For the last number of years when I was a police officer, I had a recurring dream that I was in a dangerous situation and needed to fire my gun at a bad guy. No matter how hard I tried, I could never muster the strength of actually pull the trigger. The dream would always focus in on my hand and my gun and I would be left wondering why I couldn't do something so simple and that I was so good at in practice. My dream never went any further to explore what happened to me or the bad guy. I never really find out if I'm shooting my gun to save only myself or someone else as well. When I left the RCMP last year, that dream stopped. As I reflect to write this story, I realize that it returned last night.
I've been told by a person, who should know, that dreams don't mean anything. I've also been told by a person, who does know, that I must first deal with the feelings that I am experiencing because of my new job and that dealing with the specifics of the job are secondary to that. Well, where do I start? I have feelings of here we go again, disappointing my family, of anger towards people at my new office, of being trapped in a job that I hate, uncertainty about what my career future will be or should be, guilt for seeming not to have made any progress in my self-understanding during the past three years, and about contributing and bringing enough money home so my family's quality of life is not adversely affected. I want my life to be filled with happiness and worth. I think(?) I need a job that has those qualities as well and is not simply a place where I go for 40 hours a week or is used as a means to an end. Is that unrealistic? Perhaps I'm dreaming. Maybe I've spent way too much time in left field. Maybe I like the view from there.
Friday, August 12, 2011
The Designer Caveman
I'll never be accused of dressing like George Clooney (or looking like him for that matter). It's not that I don't like nice clothes. When tastefully chosen and worn at the appropriate function, clothes can go along way to make a person feel comfortable, if not even somewhat special. Have you ever seen a guy in a tuxedo who did not think that he was, at that moment, the "cat's meow", the subject of every woman's desires? How about the well known expression that women find it hard to resist a man in uniform? Hollywood movie makers long ago understood the attractiveness of a leading man cloaked in a spiffy military uniform, or being one of the "boys in blue", or even wearing the rubber boots and britches of a fireman. Why do you think retail businesses, like Tim Horton's, McDonald's and KFC, require their employees to wear uniforms? The clothes send a message of cleanliness and professionalism and that helps to keep customers coming back.
As a former RCMP officer, I know all too well the symbolism of the uniform. The RCMP knows it too. In the early 1990's, the Force negotiated a deal with Disney to share in the profits generated by the sale of all of that Mountie memoriabilia. None of these items is more recognizable or more popular than the Mountie's red tunic,officially known as the Red Serge. It doesn't seem to matter if it is on a minature figurine of a person or a moose, those things sell.
The RCMP also uses the uniform like a carrot placed in front of an unwilling jackass. Upon arriving at the training centre in Regina, every recruit is issued several types of uniforms. Encompassed in these are the traditional, everyday working clothes and the vaunted formal Review Order dress that includes the Red Serge. The catch is that newbies in training are not allowed to wear the actual uniform of the RCMP. The Force has learned that it works very well if new Mounties learn that the priviledge of wearing the real uniform has to be earned. As a result, I started my training wearing tacky brown pants and sneakers. To make us look and feel even more unattractive, we were not allowed to walk whenever we had to go from one building to another. We had to jog and we had better not be observed touching any of the side walks while doing so either. Those were reserved for the more distinguishably dressed Mounties.
After a few months of sweat and toil, as well as numerous tongue lashings from those entrusted with making us respectable Mounties, most troops get to wear "their blues", which are the pants with the yellow stripe down the side of each leg. I admit that I was always proud to wear the uniform. Dressing in it made me feel different somehow. It is almost the same feeling as strapping on your helmet just before going onto the ice for a big game. The noise the helmet clasp makes and the sound my pistol made, as I secured it in its holster, both signified that I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
In my 21 year career, I probably only wore the actual uniform for a total of three or four years. I spent many years chasing drug dealers, which actually meant following them around secretly, as we waited to catch them red handed and make the big bust. Doing this while in uniform is possible, it is just that you'd never catch any of these wily bandits. The standard uniform of the narc is whatever everyone else happens to be wearing, necessitated by the fact that we need to blend in, not stand out. In my case, it was jeans and a t-shirt and that was fine with me. I never had the desire to own Gucci this or Gucci that. Thankfully, I am retired and don't have to investigate those many young kids who seem enamoured with the newer designer type drugs, such as ecstasy and methamphetamine. I'd have an extremely difficult time fitting into today's youth culture. I'd hate to have to try and put those large buttons in my earlobes. My genes are also against me, as my hairline no longer allows me to sport a Mohawk. What I have now-a-days is more like a natural reverse Mohawk. Perhaps in today's anything goes society, a plump, hairy eared, middle aged, jeans and t-shirt wearing undercover cop would still be effective. It's possible, but the brand of the jeans better be Guess and not Dickies from Walmart.
Sure, nice clothes say a lot about a person, but don't be fooled into thinking that you can tell everything you need to know about someone just by the materials hanging from their body. First and foremost, clothing has always been functional. They keep us warm, dry and protected from the sun. I doubt our cavemen ancestors cared if their fur underwear were from a sabre tooth tiger or a woolly mammoth, as long as it did what it was supposed to do. My attitude on clothes is fashioned after these cavemen. Like them, I have little idea about how to mix and match colours and styles. I have a wife for that and I believe that was probably the basis for the first union of man and woman. The females amongst us could no longer stand man's ineptitude for dressing themselves.
I doubt I will ever change. Yesterday, I attended a man's store because I'm starting a new office job on Monday. It seems that most of my older suits have shrunk while idling in my closet this last year or two. Who knew that inactivity could cause clothing to shrivel up! I purchased two suits, four shirts, and three ties in a total time of about eight minutes. I would have been out of there quicker, but the sales guy insisted that I actually try the stuff on. That visit confirmed that I am a fashion dinosaur. The sales guy gave me his business card (probably for when I need another suit in about ten years) and under his name was his title - Wardrobe Consultant. I can honestly admit that, before today, the word wardrobe was not in my vocabulary, nor of any of the guys that I know. The RCMP is a progressive organization, but I doubt I would have lasted even 21 days if, while in training, I had ever asked my thirty one male troop mates which wardrobe we would be wearing that day. It would have given a literal meaning to the expression "dressed to kill".
As a former RCMP officer, I know all too well the symbolism of the uniform. The RCMP knows it too. In the early 1990's, the Force negotiated a deal with Disney to share in the profits generated by the sale of all of that Mountie memoriabilia. None of these items is more recognizable or more popular than the Mountie's red tunic,officially known as the Red Serge. It doesn't seem to matter if it is on a minature figurine of a person or a moose, those things sell.
The RCMP also uses the uniform like a carrot placed in front of an unwilling jackass. Upon arriving at the training centre in Regina, every recruit is issued several types of uniforms. Encompassed in these are the traditional, everyday working clothes and the vaunted formal Review Order dress that includes the Red Serge. The catch is that newbies in training are not allowed to wear the actual uniform of the RCMP. The Force has learned that it works very well if new Mounties learn that the priviledge of wearing the real uniform has to be earned. As a result, I started my training wearing tacky brown pants and sneakers. To make us look and feel even more unattractive, we were not allowed to walk whenever we had to go from one building to another. We had to jog and we had better not be observed touching any of the side walks while doing so either. Those were reserved for the more distinguishably dressed Mounties.
After a few months of sweat and toil, as well as numerous tongue lashings from those entrusted with making us respectable Mounties, most troops get to wear "their blues", which are the pants with the yellow stripe down the side of each leg. I admit that I was always proud to wear the uniform. Dressing in it made me feel different somehow. It is almost the same feeling as strapping on your helmet just before going onto the ice for a big game. The noise the helmet clasp makes and the sound my pistol made, as I secured it in its holster, both signified that I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
In my 21 year career, I probably only wore the actual uniform for a total of three or four years. I spent many years chasing drug dealers, which actually meant following them around secretly, as we waited to catch them red handed and make the big bust. Doing this while in uniform is possible, it is just that you'd never catch any of these wily bandits. The standard uniform of the narc is whatever everyone else happens to be wearing, necessitated by the fact that we need to blend in, not stand out. In my case, it was jeans and a t-shirt and that was fine with me. I never had the desire to own Gucci this or Gucci that. Thankfully, I am retired and don't have to investigate those many young kids who seem enamoured with the newer designer type drugs, such as ecstasy and methamphetamine. I'd have an extremely difficult time fitting into today's youth culture. I'd hate to have to try and put those large buttons in my earlobes. My genes are also against me, as my hairline no longer allows me to sport a Mohawk. What I have now-a-days is more like a natural reverse Mohawk. Perhaps in today's anything goes society, a plump, hairy eared, middle aged, jeans and t-shirt wearing undercover cop would still be effective. It's possible, but the brand of the jeans better be Guess and not Dickies from Walmart.
Sure, nice clothes say a lot about a person, but don't be fooled into thinking that you can tell everything you need to know about someone just by the materials hanging from their body. First and foremost, clothing has always been functional. They keep us warm, dry and protected from the sun. I doubt our cavemen ancestors cared if their fur underwear were from a sabre tooth tiger or a woolly mammoth, as long as it did what it was supposed to do. My attitude on clothes is fashioned after these cavemen. Like them, I have little idea about how to mix and match colours and styles. I have a wife for that and I believe that was probably the basis for the first union of man and woman. The females amongst us could no longer stand man's ineptitude for dressing themselves.
I doubt I will ever change. Yesterday, I attended a man's store because I'm starting a new office job on Monday. It seems that most of my older suits have shrunk while idling in my closet this last year or two. Who knew that inactivity could cause clothing to shrivel up! I purchased two suits, four shirts, and three ties in a total time of about eight minutes. I would have been out of there quicker, but the sales guy insisted that I actually try the stuff on. That visit confirmed that I am a fashion dinosaur. The sales guy gave me his business card (probably for when I need another suit in about ten years) and under his name was his title - Wardrobe Consultant. I can honestly admit that, before today, the word wardrobe was not in my vocabulary, nor of any of the guys that I know. The RCMP is a progressive organization, but I doubt I would have lasted even 21 days if, while in training, I had ever asked my thirty one male troop mates which wardrobe we would be wearing that day. It would have given a literal meaning to the expression "dressed to kill".
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
I'm All In
I went to the hospital today for an ultrasound. I look about 22 weeks along, but I can assure you that was not the reason for the test. I"ll be fine, but the visit made me realize a couple of things. One is that despite being so maligned in the media, our provincial health care system is full of good people doing a job that is often thankless.The second is that doctors, nurses and the various technicians must be amongst the world best poker players. During my lifetime, I have had numerous tests and examinations, but I have never been able to read the minds of these people as they have been poking and prodding me. Those people are way too professional to tip their hands. They are expressionless and stoic. It's what you want your health care person to be, but it's hard on the nerves. I have had myself killed off numerous times because I suspected the sudden silence of the health care practitioner meant they had found something seriously wrong. Surely the extra time that they are taking to look at this or listen to that must mean that I'm a goner? To date, I've never been right. Thankfully. I never want to sit across from one of these people during a game of cards.
I really enjoy a game of poker from time to time. I'm not very good though. My buddies often remind me of my first real exposure to the game. It happened as a 16 year old, while we were on a softball road trip to Corner Brook. I kept getting shelled out, but luckily mom was on the trip with us. I lost count how many times that one night that I said "Mom, I need more money." I told mom that we would be on the "halves", so she keep bankrolling me, two dollars at a time. I learned one very important lesson that night - poker is even more fun when you are not losing your own money. I'd like to think that I've paid mom back, but I don't specifically recall actually repaying her. If she can produce an I.O.U., then I'll have no choice but to fork out the dough, but until that happens, mom is out of luck. Even mom's need to be taught a life lesson from time to time.
The reason I like poker has more to do with the sheer enjoyment of being with friends and the camaraderie, than with the prospect of actually winning. I love to study people too. For the majority of us, our real personality reveals itself during a few hours of low stakes poker. Watching when someone folds em or holds em, as well as how they handle the inevitable banter and badgering, are how you get a good read on your playing mates. As kids, my brothers and I would play various card games with cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and mom and dad. Many a wild game of Pass the Ace has been played in my family circle over the years.
I can recall my older brother, Gord, being described as a stingy card player by our elders. At the time, I wasn't one hundred percent sure what that meant, but it wasn't a handle that I wanted. It turn out that being stingy, just meant that he was a thinker and not reckless. These days, I know no one better than Gord at the game of poker. Younger brother Bill was a terrible card player. He was (and is still today) just too nice. You didn't have to win his match sticks because he would just give them to you if you asked. I shouldn't forget my older sister, Margaret Ann. She was the most devilish card player I ever saw. Perhaps it was a combination of a great memory and the ability to deal off the bottom of the deck that made her so formidable. We couldn't win against her. When match sticks turned into nickels, dimes, and quarters, we boys made sure that the rules included a "no girls allowed" clause. We got away with that only because Margaret Ann moved away from home to attend school in the US when she was 16 years old.
As for me.... well, I'd probably describe my poker playing as unpredictable. No one is going to read me because I can't even predict what I'm going to do next. I've certainly never been accused of having a poker face. Can you imagine if I had become a doctor? Because I can't do the stoic thing, I'd have to mix it up so that my patients wouldn't be able to figure me out. In poker, your opponents do this by recognizing your "tells", which are your behaviour cues that come consistently with whatever type of poker hand you have. In order to counter this if I were Dr. Jim, I would sometimes laugh whenever a guy dropped his pants for a testicular exam or I'd sometimes say "oh oh" during a prenatal ultrasound. On further reflection, there is probably a good reason why I'm not a medical professional. I'd probably be sued so often that I'd be as poor as a pauper. I guess, as I did when I was sixteen, I could always shout "Mom, I need more money." I'd better fold while I still can.
I really enjoy a game of poker from time to time. I'm not very good though. My buddies often remind me of my first real exposure to the game. It happened as a 16 year old, while we were on a softball road trip to Corner Brook. I kept getting shelled out, but luckily mom was on the trip with us. I lost count how many times that one night that I said "Mom, I need more money." I told mom that we would be on the "halves", so she keep bankrolling me, two dollars at a time. I learned one very important lesson that night - poker is even more fun when you are not losing your own money. I'd like to think that I've paid mom back, but I don't specifically recall actually repaying her. If she can produce an I.O.U., then I'll have no choice but to fork out the dough, but until that happens, mom is out of luck. Even mom's need to be taught a life lesson from time to time.
The reason I like poker has more to do with the sheer enjoyment of being with friends and the camaraderie, than with the prospect of actually winning. I love to study people too. For the majority of us, our real personality reveals itself during a few hours of low stakes poker. Watching when someone folds em or holds em, as well as how they handle the inevitable banter and badgering, are how you get a good read on your playing mates. As kids, my brothers and I would play various card games with cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and mom and dad. Many a wild game of Pass the Ace has been played in my family circle over the years.
I can recall my older brother, Gord, being described as a stingy card player by our elders. At the time, I wasn't one hundred percent sure what that meant, but it wasn't a handle that I wanted. It turn out that being stingy, just meant that he was a thinker and not reckless. These days, I know no one better than Gord at the game of poker. Younger brother Bill was a terrible card player. He was (and is still today) just too nice. You didn't have to win his match sticks because he would just give them to you if you asked. I shouldn't forget my older sister, Margaret Ann. She was the most devilish card player I ever saw. Perhaps it was a combination of a great memory and the ability to deal off the bottom of the deck that made her so formidable. We couldn't win against her. When match sticks turned into nickels, dimes, and quarters, we boys made sure that the rules included a "no girls allowed" clause. We got away with that only because Margaret Ann moved away from home to attend school in the US when she was 16 years old.
As for me.... well, I'd probably describe my poker playing as unpredictable. No one is going to read me because I can't even predict what I'm going to do next. I've certainly never been accused of having a poker face. Can you imagine if I had become a doctor? Because I can't do the stoic thing, I'd have to mix it up so that my patients wouldn't be able to figure me out. In poker, your opponents do this by recognizing your "tells", which are your behaviour cues that come consistently with whatever type of poker hand you have. In order to counter this if I were Dr. Jim, I would sometimes laugh whenever a guy dropped his pants for a testicular exam or I'd sometimes say "oh oh" during a prenatal ultrasound. On further reflection, there is probably a good reason why I'm not a medical professional. I'd probably be sued so often that I'd be as poor as a pauper. I guess, as I did when I was sixteen, I could always shout "Mom, I need more money." I'd better fold while I still can.
Monday, August 08, 2011
I Hope I'm Full of Baloney
Upon rising from my slumber this morning, I was somewhat surprised to come face to face with the two teary eyed little girls. I immediately thought that perhaps they believed the apocalypse had cometh because this summer's ever present wind and rain had temporarily forsaken us. Kendall and Avery must have reasoned that this was "the calm before the storm" and that the life ending meteor, the final flood, or the fire that finishes us was imminent. I splashed some water on my face to give me a chance to rethink the situation and to try to come up with the fatherly thing to do. Upon reflection, I realized that my kids are fairly level headed and not usually prone to such outlandish thinking. It had to be something else.
A quick check of the Internet didn't provide the explanation that I was seeking. Miley Cyrus hadn't joined a cult (at least not yet), nor had Selena Gomez suffered a permanent case of laryngitis. None of the kids' icons were doing anything that would be considered abnormal for such Hollywood types. As a father of preteen girls, I resorted to the last course of action available to me - I asked them what was wrong.
It turns out that neither girl is too enamoured with the idea of going to swim camp this afternoon and for every afternoon this week. What's up with that? The girls love swimming and are even active members of a competitive swimming club from September to June. It's not like the swim camp was a surprise. We signed them up months ago. They even know some of the instructors and will probably see several of their swimming friends there too. So why the big alligator tears? Such emotions are alien to me. These girls are only 9 and 11 and there have been no signs of the "big change" that will eventually come to them, and indirectly, to me.
Kendall and Avery have enjoyed their time off from school, perhaps a little too much. Kendall can sleep like there's no tomorrow - late to settle each night and loves lounging until well into the morning. Avery has had more face time with the computer this summer than Charlie Sheen has had with his psychiatrist. If the on-line kids' game called Fantage ever goes public, I'd suggest buying a few hundred shares. It will put Microsoft to shame, as it is more addictive and I was even convinced to doll out some cash to the company so Avery could have an upgraded membership. Their mother and I have always tried hard to ensure the girls were adaptable and acceptable of change, but perhaps we've fallen short. I guess the kids were banking on living it up until they had to head back to school in the fall.
Lynda was gone to work while I was tackling this morning's emotional crisis, but thankfully, Grammie was able to lend a hand. Her specially prepared Bologna sandwich for Avery and a few words of encouragement to Kendall helped get the ship righted. I also had the perfect speech all prepared and practiced. One that would help Kendall and Avery see that the "doing" part of life is actually the best part. The motivation for my speech came from the fact that after being "retired" for a while, I'm heading back to work next week. I got a full time, but temporary position with the provincial government that will keep me out of trouble until next spring. Like the kids, my days of lounging and Googling will also be severely limited, so I understand their angst. I told the kids that how they are feeling now is exactly how I will feel next Monday when I have to go to a real office for the first time in a long time. Instead of feeling anxious, we should think of it as being an adventure and that we really are lucky to be able to go to a swim camp and to go to work for the provincial government.
What a load of baloney! The kids seem to have bought it though. They were both in good spirits when I finally dropped them off at the pool this afternoon. Well, at least they seem to have bought the part about being fortunate to be able to go swimming and playing with friends. I doubt they were too convinced about their dad being lucky because he gets to put on a suit and go into an office all day to work. Perhaps when next Monday rolls around I too may be shedding big tears. It is very likely that I will have some reluctance about going back to work. I'm hopeful that there may be a couple of fringe benefits that will make the transition easier: one is that the cafeteria at the Confederation Building serves Bologna sandwiches; the other is that my premium Fantage membership works on the government computers.
A quick check of the Internet didn't provide the explanation that I was seeking. Miley Cyrus hadn't joined a cult (at least not yet), nor had Selena Gomez suffered a permanent case of laryngitis. None of the kids' icons were doing anything that would be considered abnormal for such Hollywood types. As a father of preteen girls, I resorted to the last course of action available to me - I asked them what was wrong.
It turns out that neither girl is too enamoured with the idea of going to swim camp this afternoon and for every afternoon this week. What's up with that? The girls love swimming and are even active members of a competitive swimming club from September to June. It's not like the swim camp was a surprise. We signed them up months ago. They even know some of the instructors and will probably see several of their swimming friends there too. So why the big alligator tears? Such emotions are alien to me. These girls are only 9 and 11 and there have been no signs of the "big change" that will eventually come to them, and indirectly, to me.
Kendall and Avery have enjoyed their time off from school, perhaps a little too much. Kendall can sleep like there's no tomorrow - late to settle each night and loves lounging until well into the morning. Avery has had more face time with the computer this summer than Charlie Sheen has had with his psychiatrist. If the on-line kids' game called Fantage ever goes public, I'd suggest buying a few hundred shares. It will put Microsoft to shame, as it is more addictive and I was even convinced to doll out some cash to the company so Avery could have an upgraded membership. Their mother and I have always tried hard to ensure the girls were adaptable and acceptable of change, but perhaps we've fallen short. I guess the kids were banking on living it up until they had to head back to school in the fall.
Lynda was gone to work while I was tackling this morning's emotional crisis, but thankfully, Grammie was able to lend a hand. Her specially prepared Bologna sandwich for Avery and a few words of encouragement to Kendall helped get the ship righted. I also had the perfect speech all prepared and practiced. One that would help Kendall and Avery see that the "doing" part of life is actually the best part. The motivation for my speech came from the fact that after being "retired" for a while, I'm heading back to work next week. I got a full time, but temporary position with the provincial government that will keep me out of trouble until next spring. Like the kids, my days of lounging and Googling will also be severely limited, so I understand their angst. I told the kids that how they are feeling now is exactly how I will feel next Monday when I have to go to a real office for the first time in a long time. Instead of feeling anxious, we should think of it as being an adventure and that we really are lucky to be able to go to a swim camp and to go to work for the provincial government.
What a load of baloney! The kids seem to have bought it though. They were both in good spirits when I finally dropped them off at the pool this afternoon. Well, at least they seem to have bought the part about being fortunate to be able to go swimming and playing with friends. I doubt they were too convinced about their dad being lucky because he gets to put on a suit and go into an office all day to work. Perhaps when next Monday rolls around I too may be shedding big tears. It is very likely that I will have some reluctance about going back to work. I'm hopeful that there may be a couple of fringe benefits that will make the transition easier: one is that the cafeteria at the Confederation Building serves Bologna sandwiches; the other is that my premium Fantage membership works on the government computers.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
House For Sale (Marihuana Plants Negotiable)
This is a week of birthdays in our household. My two daughters were born on July 20th and 26th. No, they are not twins, although that would be pretty cool to have twins born 6 days apart. Well, maybe not so cool for their mother. Kendall and Avery are turning 11 and 9. They are growing into independent and responsible young ladies. The middle school and teenage years lay before us, but so far it has been a pretty enjoyable ride for Lynda and me. Depending on how those coming years shape up, I may suddenly develop an affinity for woodworking out in the garage or become even more of a fixture at my office, a.k.a. the table by the wall at Starbucks. I've noticed that lots of other dads and husbands take up seemingly outlandish pursuits during certain periods that correspond with times when "things are a changing" most for the women in their lives. Training for marathons and skydiving are virtual cakewalks compared to living in a household bursting at the seams with female hormones.
I have learned that children are more likely to emulate their parents behaviour and habits rather than follow advice that is given to them. I believe I have mentioned it in a previous story, but a certain piece of advice I give my kids falls right in line with this fact - "Don't believe anything that you hear and only half what you see." It doesn't matter if that parental advice is heartfelt or is accompanied by threats of never being allowed to leave their rooms ever again. It's not exactly a case of monkey see, monkey do, but those little orangutans of ours learn so much more by what we do, than what we say. Kids are incredibly smart and cannot be bamboozled.
This leads me to my latest predicament. Please feel free to weigh in on this one, as I can use the help. Tell me what you would do. The easy way, which is also sometimes the correct way, is to just let it go, do nothing, don't get involved. I can probably sleep easy at night by trying to convince myself that it's really none of my business. Just the fact that I'm still thinking about it after a week and now I'm writing about it, should tell me everything I need to know. I do care and I probably should do something. Let me tell you what the issue is.
A couple of years back, when I was a hotshot narc with the RCMP in St. John's, our team received information about marihuana being grown at a house in the downtown core. I lead the investigation and we uncovered several interesting facts:
The renter, ur ur .... I mean patient, was cooperative, interesting to speak with, and did indeed have the necessary paperwork to do what he was doing, just not in the volume that he had chosen to do it. I did not arrest and charge the patient and I even went to the extreme in the name of police-client relationship building. That being said, it was certainly my duty and obligation to seize the plants that put the patient over the limit stipulated by Health Canada. I let the patient decide which plants would be kept and which ones would be seized by us and destroyed. He certainly chose his half well. None of the ones he kept were growing in orange clay.
I did some additional follow up with Health Canada and realized that the political and social will to allow the use of medical marihuana was light years ahead of any policy and procedures needed to ensure that it was being done effectively. For example, growing marihuana indoors requires lots of heat and cycles of intense light. The lights utilized are extremely hot and their wattage, as well as the number needed, usually require the grower to rewire circuits or to dangerously overload others. The risk of a fire has to increase substantially whenever an indoor grow is present. Health Canada has no provisions for assisting in the electrical requirements of the grow ops that it permits, be it financial or advisory.
I was most surprised to learn that the patient, who was a renter, was not required to advise the owner of the house that marihuana was to be grown in it. The moisture, the high temperatures, and the length of time marihuana is grown in a house are all factors that combine to provide the optimal breeding ground for mold and mildew. If you've ever watched an episode of Holmes On Homes then you are aware of how serious a problem it is and the expense and effort that is undertaken to rid homes of the mold. Whenever a marihuana grow operation is encountered, police use hazmat suits and breathing apparatus. In my experience as a cop in Ontario, where grow ops flourish, houses that were used as marihuana grows saw their resale value drop substantially. In some jurisdictions, I believe there is also a legal requirement to note on the title documents that the property was once used as a marihuana grow operation. I am not aware of any such requirement in this province. It seems it is buyer beware.
Finally, I come to my dilemma. While flipping through the newspaper last weekend, I saw that the house, where the medicinal marihuana was being grown, is now for sale. I do not know whether the patient still rents the house or whether the legal grow operation is still occupying those two rooms on the second floor. I do know that if I were purchasing a home, one where I intended to raise a family, I would certainly want to know about anything that may compromise the health of those I love most. The listing did not say "Lovely three bedroom in the heart of the city, close to parks, shopping, and the George Street entertainment district. Appliances, as well as the equipment to grow marihuana included. The 70 marihuana plants are negotiable. Make an offer." If the plants are still there, at least potential buyers will be making an informed decision. Perhaps the patient wants to stay, so buying the property as an investment may also make some sense (some, but not a lot).
My fear is that there are no longer any obvious signs that this house was used to grow marihuana. Potential buyers may not be aware, nor advised, that under the gyproc walls lurks a silent health menace, just waiting to harm the little lungs of their children. Perhaps the listing agent is not aware either. I do know that the owner of this particular house was aware that the tenant was growing legal marihuana. Perhaps the owner felt there was no recourse and had to allow it because Health Canada issued the tenant a permit or perhaps the idea of a steady monthly rental cheque made it tolerable. Whatever the reason, the owner now has an obligation..... no..... a duty to disclose the existence of the marihuana grow to potential buyers.
I am tempted to call the agent. Perhaps I can pretend to be interested in acquiring the house just to see what information is given. Then again, I could just do nothing. I could just assume it is no longer any of my business. Surely, my kids would understand why I chose to sit silently on the sidelines and let possible harm come to people. Surely, I can keep from them the fact that I compromised my values in the name of not getting involved.
I can't do that. I have to speak up. Another expression I like is "You reap what you sow." My kids have gotten to be the wonderful people they are because they are growing up in a home where caring about others is valued. If I don't look further into the sale of that house, then I am failing my children because I will not be practising what I preach. In essence, daddy will be a fraud. If I become just another member of the silent majority, then I will be choosing to disengage from my family. If I do that, then I may as well book my first skydiving lesson right now.
I have learned that children are more likely to emulate their parents behaviour and habits rather than follow advice that is given to them. I believe I have mentioned it in a previous story, but a certain piece of advice I give my kids falls right in line with this fact - "Don't believe anything that you hear and only half what you see." It doesn't matter if that parental advice is heartfelt or is accompanied by threats of never being allowed to leave their rooms ever again. It's not exactly a case of monkey see, monkey do, but those little orangutans of ours learn so much more by what we do, than what we say. Kids are incredibly smart and cannot be bamboozled.
This leads me to my latest predicament. Please feel free to weigh in on this one, as I can use the help. Tell me what you would do. The easy way, which is also sometimes the correct way, is to just let it go, do nothing, don't get involved. I can probably sleep easy at night by trying to convince myself that it's really none of my business. Just the fact that I'm still thinking about it after a week and now I'm writing about it, should tell me everything I need to know. I do care and I probably should do something. Let me tell you what the issue is.
A couple of years back, when I was a hotshot narc with the RCMP in St. John's, our team received information about marihuana being grown at a house in the downtown core. I lead the investigation and we uncovered several interesting facts:
- the house was being rented;
- the renter had a permit from Health Canada to grow weed for medicinal purposes;
- the permit allowed for no more than 70 plants to be growing at any one time; and
- Health Canada did not have any plan to inspect and regulate the marihuana growing of the people it provided permission to do so.
The renter, ur ur .... I mean patient, was cooperative, interesting to speak with, and did indeed have the necessary paperwork to do what he was doing, just not in the volume that he had chosen to do it. I did not arrest and charge the patient and I even went to the extreme in the name of police-client relationship building. That being said, it was certainly my duty and obligation to seize the plants that put the patient over the limit stipulated by Health Canada. I let the patient decide which plants would be kept and which ones would be seized by us and destroyed. He certainly chose his half well. None of the ones he kept were growing in orange clay.
I did some additional follow up with Health Canada and realized that the political and social will to allow the use of medical marihuana was light years ahead of any policy and procedures needed to ensure that it was being done effectively. For example, growing marihuana indoors requires lots of heat and cycles of intense light. The lights utilized are extremely hot and their wattage, as well as the number needed, usually require the grower to rewire circuits or to dangerously overload others. The risk of a fire has to increase substantially whenever an indoor grow is present. Health Canada has no provisions for assisting in the electrical requirements of the grow ops that it permits, be it financial or advisory.
I was most surprised to learn that the patient, who was a renter, was not required to advise the owner of the house that marihuana was to be grown in it. The moisture, the high temperatures, and the length of time marihuana is grown in a house are all factors that combine to provide the optimal breeding ground for mold and mildew. If you've ever watched an episode of Holmes On Homes then you are aware of how serious a problem it is and the expense and effort that is undertaken to rid homes of the mold. Whenever a marihuana grow operation is encountered, police use hazmat suits and breathing apparatus. In my experience as a cop in Ontario, where grow ops flourish, houses that were used as marihuana grows saw their resale value drop substantially. In some jurisdictions, I believe there is also a legal requirement to note on the title documents that the property was once used as a marihuana grow operation. I am not aware of any such requirement in this province. It seems it is buyer beware.
Finally, I come to my dilemma. While flipping through the newspaper last weekend, I saw that the house, where the medicinal marihuana was being grown, is now for sale. I do not know whether the patient still rents the house or whether the legal grow operation is still occupying those two rooms on the second floor. I do know that if I were purchasing a home, one where I intended to raise a family, I would certainly want to know about anything that may compromise the health of those I love most. The listing did not say "Lovely three bedroom in the heart of the city, close to parks, shopping, and the George Street entertainment district. Appliances, as well as the equipment to grow marihuana included. The 70 marihuana plants are negotiable. Make an offer." If the plants are still there, at least potential buyers will be making an informed decision. Perhaps the patient wants to stay, so buying the property as an investment may also make some sense (some, but not a lot).
My fear is that there are no longer any obvious signs that this house was used to grow marihuana. Potential buyers may not be aware, nor advised, that under the gyproc walls lurks a silent health menace, just waiting to harm the little lungs of their children. Perhaps the listing agent is not aware either. I do know that the owner of this particular house was aware that the tenant was growing legal marihuana. Perhaps the owner felt there was no recourse and had to allow it because Health Canada issued the tenant a permit or perhaps the idea of a steady monthly rental cheque made it tolerable. Whatever the reason, the owner now has an obligation..... no..... a duty to disclose the existence of the marihuana grow to potential buyers.
I am tempted to call the agent. Perhaps I can pretend to be interested in acquiring the house just to see what information is given. Then again, I could just do nothing. I could just assume it is no longer any of my business. Surely, my kids would understand why I chose to sit silently on the sidelines and let possible harm come to people. Surely, I can keep from them the fact that I compromised my values in the name of not getting involved.
I can't do that. I have to speak up. Another expression I like is "You reap what you sow." My kids have gotten to be the wonderful people they are because they are growing up in a home where caring about others is valued. If I don't look further into the sale of that house, then I am failing my children because I will not be practising what I preach. In essence, daddy will be a fraud. If I become just another member of the silent majority, then I will be choosing to disengage from my family. If I do that, then I may as well book my first skydiving lesson right now.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Peeing at the Pond
I must be having a mid life crisis. What else can explain that the fact that at 7:30 this morning I found myself parked at the boathouse by Quidi Vidi Lake?
The Pond is the name used by residents of St. John's and those of us living on the fringes of the capital city. I've lived in this area for much of my life and I've yet to figure out if the proper name for the Pond is pronounced like Kitty Vitty or Quida Vida. As a kid, I thought maybe how a certain person pronounced it had something to do with which side of the tracks they were from. That made some sense until the province negotiated with the feds and agreed to abolish our rail-roads in exchange for more federal money to improve our highways. The roads are wider, but I'm not so sure they are any better or safer either. With no trains to haul our goods, our highways are now overrun with monster sized trucks that travel at breakneck speeds and are piloted by drivers who are often paid for expediency. Our highways are not the 401, with very little of it being a true divided highway. Westbound vehicles literally pass within feet of those travelling eastbound. It's a real treat to see the sign on the shoulder "Keep Right Except To Pass". It allows us some added separation from oncoming kamikazes and to get ahead of the guy putting along at 50 because he's pulling a 40 foot travel trailer with an underpowered Ford Ranger truck.
There were no tractor trailers or Japanese Zeros at the Pond this morning. There was a heck of a lot of rain. Despite the wetness, there were still joggers taking advantage of the 3.8 kilometer trail that circles the Pond. Nowhere else in the city will you find a flat track, as well as one where you do not risk life and limb because you have to run in and around traffic.
There were also several hardy rowing crews heading out on the Pond for a spin. The Pond is the site for the annual St. John's Regatta, which is the longest running sporting event in North America. I'll always associate that phrase with the harmonic voice of the legendary radio personality, Mr. George MacLaren. Most of the 20,000 people hoarded around the Pond are there to partake in the games of chance and the fine dining that is being slung and flung from the tents and trailers. Very few of them are actually spectators of the six oared racing shells, which has always been a shame. You can bet though, that even the least interested patron took notice when the excited tones of Mr. MacLaren resonated from the car radios and boom boxes that were situated around the top of the pond. (Only in Newfoundland can a flat body of water, such as a pond or lake, have a top and a bottom. It makes sense really. The top is where the river flows into the pond and it flows out at the bottom.) Thanks for the memories George.
One more quick reflection about our Royal Regatta. I rowed in it in 1978, as a 13 year old. Our crew was motley by today's standards, but it was an awesome experience and one that has forever made me feel connected to the Regatta and to the Pond. Our coxswain, the guy who steered the boat and yelled at us to row harder, was a grizzled veteran of the races. He was certainly old school. He would drive us to our daily spins, but only as long as we were on the side of the road when he drove by. If one of the six of us was missing, then we'd lose out on some badly needed practice. We didn't do any dry land training, having unanimously decided to leave that for the more dedicated crews. Our guess our coxswain missed that meeting or decided that he'd make us worthy to be called rowers. When picking us up to head down to the Pond, he'd never actually stop, but would just slow a little. We all became pretty good at sprinting a few hundred yards and diving into the bed of a moving pick up truck. When my kids read this, they won't understand. I will have to teach them that 1978 was before we knew that vehicles came with seat belts. It was a time of innocence...... and naiveness.
Our coxswain assured us that the secret to winning was to toughen up our hands. Blisters and rowing come hand in hand, but minimizing them may give you that one second advantage that may be the difference between winning and losing. We were also told that the secret to tough hands was to pee on them. Yes, pee.. as in pee. So we did. Now, we peed only on our own hands and not on those of our team mates. Doing that would be gross! In any event, it seemed to have worked. On Regatta Day, we won our race by the narrowest of margins. I hate to think what would have happened if we had not heeded our mentor's advice. Losing would have peed us right off.
I now realize what brought me to the Pond this morning. It was a not a mid life crisis, not yet anyway. The other day I saw a picture of myself and I was shirtless. I could use a bro or a manssiere
Heading to the Pond this morning is hopefully the start of that. I didn't run all the way around the Pond. I'm quite certain that I couldn't, even if I wanted to. It was more of a stroll, interrupted by a few sprints and some push ups. Since I was last there, a tribute to the Royal Newfoundland Regiment has been erected on the Pleasantville side, near the bottom of the Pond. I mention this because it is a must see. I'm hopeful that frequent visits to Quidi Vidi will be the inspiration that I need to get in better shape. We large people defend our largeness by stating that we are already in shape - round is a shape. That's cute, but it no longer makes me feel good about myself. I plan on putting a lot of miles on this middle aged body in the coming months. I worry that all of that walking and occasional jogging may be too much for my softened body. I hope I don't end up getting blisters on my feet because I'd have to stop my exercise routine and that would jeopardise my health. Thankfully, I already know a tried and true way to prevent blisters.
The Pond is the name used by residents of St. John's and those of us living on the fringes of the capital city. I've lived in this area for much of my life and I've yet to figure out if the proper name for the Pond is pronounced like Kitty Vitty or Quida Vida. As a kid, I thought maybe how a certain person pronounced it had something to do with which side of the tracks they were from. That made some sense until the province negotiated with the feds and agreed to abolish our rail-roads in exchange for more federal money to improve our highways. The roads are wider, but I'm not so sure they are any better or safer either. With no trains to haul our goods, our highways are now overrun with monster sized trucks that travel at breakneck speeds and are piloted by drivers who are often paid for expediency. Our highways are not the 401, with very little of it being a true divided highway. Westbound vehicles literally pass within feet of those travelling eastbound. It's a real treat to see the sign on the shoulder "Keep Right Except To Pass". It allows us some added separation from oncoming kamikazes and to get ahead of the guy putting along at 50 because he's pulling a 40 foot travel trailer with an underpowered Ford Ranger truck.
There were no tractor trailers or Japanese Zeros at the Pond this morning. There was a heck of a lot of rain. Despite the wetness, there were still joggers taking advantage of the 3.8 kilometer trail that circles the Pond. Nowhere else in the city will you find a flat track, as well as one where you do not risk life and limb because you have to run in and around traffic.
There were also several hardy rowing crews heading out on the Pond for a spin. The Pond is the site for the annual St. John's Regatta, which is the longest running sporting event in North America. I'll always associate that phrase with the harmonic voice of the legendary radio personality, Mr. George MacLaren. Most of the 20,000 people hoarded around the Pond are there to partake in the games of chance and the fine dining that is being slung and flung from the tents and trailers. Very few of them are actually spectators of the six oared racing shells, which has always been a shame. You can bet though, that even the least interested patron took notice when the excited tones of Mr. MacLaren resonated from the car radios and boom boxes that were situated around the top of the pond. (Only in Newfoundland can a flat body of water, such as a pond or lake, have a top and a bottom. It makes sense really. The top is where the river flows into the pond and it flows out at the bottom.) Thanks for the memories George.
One more quick reflection about our Royal Regatta. I rowed in it in 1978, as a 13 year old. Our crew was motley by today's standards, but it was an awesome experience and one that has forever made me feel connected to the Regatta and to the Pond. Our coxswain, the guy who steered the boat and yelled at us to row harder, was a grizzled veteran of the races. He was certainly old school. He would drive us to our daily spins, but only as long as we were on the side of the road when he drove by. If one of the six of us was missing, then we'd lose out on some badly needed practice. We didn't do any dry land training, having unanimously decided to leave that for the more dedicated crews. Our guess our coxswain missed that meeting or decided that he'd make us worthy to be called rowers. When picking us up to head down to the Pond, he'd never actually stop, but would just slow a little. We all became pretty good at sprinting a few hundred yards and diving into the bed of a moving pick up truck. When my kids read this, they won't understand. I will have to teach them that 1978 was before we knew that vehicles came with seat belts. It was a time of innocence...... and naiveness.
Our coxswain assured us that the secret to winning was to toughen up our hands. Blisters and rowing come hand in hand, but minimizing them may give you that one second advantage that may be the difference between winning and losing. We were also told that the secret to tough hands was to pee on them. Yes, pee.. as in pee. So we did. Now, we peed only on our own hands and not on those of our team mates. Doing that would be gross! In any event, it seemed to have worked. On Regatta Day, we won our race by the narrowest of margins. I hate to think what would have happened if we had not heeded our mentor's advice. Losing would have peed us right off.
I now realize what brought me to the Pond this morning. It was a not a mid life crisis, not yet anyway. The other day I saw a picture of myself and I was shirtless. I could use a bro or a manssiere
Heading to the Pond this morning is hopefully the start of that. I didn't run all the way around the Pond. I'm quite certain that I couldn't, even if I wanted to. It was more of a stroll, interrupted by a few sprints and some push ups. Since I was last there, a tribute to the Royal Newfoundland Regiment has been erected on the Pleasantville side, near the bottom of the Pond. I mention this because it is a must see. I'm hopeful that frequent visits to Quidi Vidi will be the inspiration that I need to get in better shape. We large people defend our largeness by stating that we are already in shape - round is a shape. That's cute, but it no longer makes me feel good about myself. I plan on putting a lot of miles on this middle aged body in the coming months. I worry that all of that walking and occasional jogging may be too much for my softened body. I hope I don't end up getting blisters on my feet because I'd have to stop my exercise routine and that would jeopardise my health. Thankfully, I already know a tried and true way to prevent blisters.
Friday, July 15, 2011
An American Pie Spy
An American invasion occurred recently on the Northeast Avalon. It wasn't the vaunted US military seeking to reclaim Pleasantville as a base to counter any possible Newfoundland based cell of Al-Qaeda, nor was it the US musical equivalent of the British invasion launched by the Beatles on North America in the 1960's. This invasion force was not dispatched by Uncle Sam to conquer and torture us unmercilessly by having us recite the Pledge of Allegiance. They were not about to launch cruise missiles or even twist our arms just a little bit to try to make us swear that Michael J. Fox, Bryan Adams, Shania Twain, Wayne Gretzky, Steve Nash, and Captain James T. Kirk (aka William Shatner) are, in fact, Americans and not Canadians. (Here's my personal position on that - leave lovely Shania alone. She's mine, ours.... I mean Canadian. That whole deal that saw her move to Nashville and then to some castle in Switzerland was likely orchestrated by you Americans, just so you could brainwash her to be non-Canadian. Well, it didn't work. That spy of yours, the Mutt guy, failed. You've probably exiled him to New Jersey as punishment for his inability to complete the mission that he accepted.)
The latest foreign escapade of the United Sates is very obvious to me. They are determined to learn and steal the secrets of certain Newfie culinary fare. Specifically, "the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming" to steal the recipes for our caribou, flipper and rabbit pies. This is very serious stuff indeed! Two hundred and thirty five years ago, that very same country revolted from England because of tea. Now, we Newfs love a drop of tea, but I doubt we'd go to war over it. Surely, there's enough Tetley in the world to go around. Perhaps they didn't know that you can reuse a bag two or even three times, particularly if you don't mind a weak spot of tea from time-to-time. Our caribou, seals, and rabbits are certainly more precious than tea leaves. That being said, who knows what measures America will go to in order to win independence from having to import our wild life pies. America may be "Apple Pie", but they haven't a clue about combining pastry and wild game. That skill has been honed and perfected by our foremothers (not too many of our forefathers knew their way around a wood oven).
To accomplish the theft of our precious pastry, our southern neighbours sent their best agent, Dr. Steve. To conceal the real intention of his visit to our island, Dr. Steve brought along his two young children and his wife, Kim. Those American spy agencies think of everything! It just so happens that Kim is a born and bred Newfoundlander, having grown up with my wife in the lovely St. John's neighbourhood of Mundy Pond. Dr. Steve actually spent his teenage years in Mount Pearl. He had to. He needed to know the ways of his future target, their expressions and customs. He needed to appear to be one of us when he approached the counter at Bidgoods and ordered his samples. A good spy never draws suspicion and it appears that Dr. Steve is better than good. I wonder if he has one of those cool spy names, like Double O 7 or Agent 86?
I've known Steve for over twenty years and I never would have suspected him. I now realize I have been played. Who, other than a spy, would go to university for 15 years just to become a doctor of sociology? As Steve himself is apt to say, those type of doctors are the useless kind. Also, what person, other than an American spy, would voluntarily move from Newfoundland and settle in places like: Ann Arbor, Michigan: Dayton, Ohio; Pittsburgh; Oakland; and Columbus, Ohio? What a sham!
During Dr. Steve's recent stay at my house, he also asked some strange questions and made curious comments that should have told me he wasn't the real deal. He wondered why the old railway bed wasn't paved from St. John's to Port Aux Basques, so people from away could do bike tours from quaint community to quaint community? First of all, the Baymen don't want any mainlanders congesting the old railway bed. They need all the room they can get to ride their quads and snow machines. Tourists on the trail would mean rules and rules would ruin some of the best fun to be had "around the bay" - playing Smokey and the Bandit with the cops. Secondly, paving the trailway is a fantasy, when even paving the TCH appears to have overmatched even our best civil engineers. I've done a fair bit of travel throughout Canada, the US and even Europe, and nowhere do they have ruts in the road like we do in Newfoundland. When it rains, those ruts become rivers and our vehicles become boats with wheels. Hydroplaning is one scary misadventure. Perhaps the government figures that by having deep trenches in our highways the moose will not dare cross and endanger people in the vehicles using the highways. It's sort of like a moose fence, but in reverse. At least Dr. Steve didn't suggest that we put up signs to warn the moose. That would be a dumb thing to do because how would the moose be able to see and read these signs at night? I guess some things are not taught in spy school.
I assume the plan was for Dr. Steve to buy the caribou, flipper, and rabbit pies and smuggle them out of the country. I also believe that the devilish plan called for Dr. Steve to eat the pies before leaving our country, making it appear that he and his family had nothing to declare. Our Customs Officers would have no way of knowing that a sinister plan was unfolding right before them. This method of smuggling has long been used by drug mules, who swallow cocaine and heroin and easily walk across international borders. The American spy guys made one critical error this time though. In all of the years that Dr. Steve previously lived in Newfoundland, he never once ate caribou, flipper, or rabbit pie. That was his undoing.
He was actually two thirds of the way through his mission, with only one pie left to consume. He had photographed all three pies and sent them across the Internet, using Facebook as his cover. Clever indeed. He even used our natural predisposition for hospitality to further his plan, by having me warm up the third and final pie, the flipper.
You may be wondering just what happened to foil the American scheme to steal the pies that are native to our province? It turns out that by having never tasted flipper pie, Dr. Steve was ill prepared for the culinary delight he was about to experience. His American pallet, more used to Denny's and IHOP, could not stand the flavour, texture, and richness of the meat of a North Atlantic harp seal. The entire contents of Dr. Steve's stomach, including the caribou and rabbit pies, are now located in the septic field of my house. Upon taking his first bite of flipper pie, Dr. Steve exclaimed, while turning a shade of green, that there must be something wrong with the seal meat because it tasted just like fish! Apparently, Dr.Steve, American spy extraordinaire, is deathly allergic to seafood. Just where did he think seals came from and what they eat to survive? Thank Cod for the cod!
Also thankfully, Dr. Steve failed to complete his mission. I suspect that upon returning to the United States last week, he was not warmly received by his masters, those who sought to subvert the society of their friendly northern neighbours. We can likely find Dr. Steve now living somewhere in New Jersey. He is room mates with another disgraced spy, a guy named Mutt.
About the author:
Jim Nixon is a teller of tales, a proud Newfoundlander, and a lover of pie. He is thankful to have wonderful family, friends, and acquaintances who still speak with him after their likenesses are used to spin a yarn. Feel free to send these stories to anyone you think may enjoy them. If you are interested in receiving Jim's stories directly by email, please let him know your email address and he will send you a link to set that up. Jim's email address is nixon_jim@hotmail.com. You can also make your request in the comment section of any of Jim's stories on Blogger. Thanks for following Tales of the Not So Private I.
The latest foreign escapade of the United Sates is very obvious to me. They are determined to learn and steal the secrets of certain Newfie culinary fare. Specifically, "the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming" to steal the recipes for our caribou, flipper and rabbit pies. This is very serious stuff indeed! Two hundred and thirty five years ago, that very same country revolted from England because of tea. Now, we Newfs love a drop of tea, but I doubt we'd go to war over it. Surely, there's enough Tetley in the world to go around. Perhaps they didn't know that you can reuse a bag two or even three times, particularly if you don't mind a weak spot of tea from time-to-time. Our caribou, seals, and rabbits are certainly more precious than tea leaves. That being said, who knows what measures America will go to in order to win independence from having to import our wild life pies. America may be "Apple Pie", but they haven't a clue about combining pastry and wild game. That skill has been honed and perfected by our foremothers (not too many of our forefathers knew their way around a wood oven).
To accomplish the theft of our precious pastry, our southern neighbours sent their best agent, Dr. Steve. To conceal the real intention of his visit to our island, Dr. Steve brought along his two young children and his wife, Kim. Those American spy agencies think of everything! It just so happens that Kim is a born and bred Newfoundlander, having grown up with my wife in the lovely St. John's neighbourhood of Mundy Pond. Dr. Steve actually spent his teenage years in Mount Pearl. He had to. He needed to know the ways of his future target, their expressions and customs. He needed to appear to be one of us when he approached the counter at Bidgoods and ordered his samples. A good spy never draws suspicion and it appears that Dr. Steve is better than good. I wonder if he has one of those cool spy names, like Double O 7 or Agent 86?
I've known Steve for over twenty years and I never would have suspected him. I now realize I have been played. Who, other than a spy, would go to university for 15 years just to become a doctor of sociology? As Steve himself is apt to say, those type of doctors are the useless kind. Also, what person, other than an American spy, would voluntarily move from Newfoundland and settle in places like: Ann Arbor, Michigan: Dayton, Ohio; Pittsburgh; Oakland; and Columbus, Ohio? What a sham!
During Dr. Steve's recent stay at my house, he also asked some strange questions and made curious comments that should have told me he wasn't the real deal. He wondered why the old railway bed wasn't paved from St. John's to Port Aux Basques, so people from away could do bike tours from quaint community to quaint community? First of all, the Baymen don't want any mainlanders congesting the old railway bed. They need all the room they can get to ride their quads and snow machines. Tourists on the trail would mean rules and rules would ruin some of the best fun to be had "around the bay" - playing Smokey and the Bandit with the cops. Secondly, paving the trailway is a fantasy, when even paving the TCH appears to have overmatched even our best civil engineers. I've done a fair bit of travel throughout Canada, the US and even Europe, and nowhere do they have ruts in the road like we do in Newfoundland. When it rains, those ruts become rivers and our vehicles become boats with wheels. Hydroplaning is one scary misadventure. Perhaps the government figures that by having deep trenches in our highways the moose will not dare cross and endanger people in the vehicles using the highways. It's sort of like a moose fence, but in reverse. At least Dr. Steve didn't suggest that we put up signs to warn the moose. That would be a dumb thing to do because how would the moose be able to see and read these signs at night? I guess some things are not taught in spy school.
I assume the plan was for Dr. Steve to buy the caribou, flipper, and rabbit pies and smuggle them out of the country. I also believe that the devilish plan called for Dr. Steve to eat the pies before leaving our country, making it appear that he and his family had nothing to declare. Our Customs Officers would have no way of knowing that a sinister plan was unfolding right before them. This method of smuggling has long been used by drug mules, who swallow cocaine and heroin and easily walk across international borders. The American spy guys made one critical error this time though. In all of the years that Dr. Steve previously lived in Newfoundland, he never once ate caribou, flipper, or rabbit pie. That was his undoing.
He was actually two thirds of the way through his mission, with only one pie left to consume. He had photographed all three pies and sent them across the Internet, using Facebook as his cover. Clever indeed. He even used our natural predisposition for hospitality to further his plan, by having me warm up the third and final pie, the flipper.
You may be wondering just what happened to foil the American scheme to steal the pies that are native to our province? It turns out that by having never tasted flipper pie, Dr. Steve was ill prepared for the culinary delight he was about to experience. His American pallet, more used to Denny's and IHOP, could not stand the flavour, texture, and richness of the meat of a North Atlantic harp seal. The entire contents of Dr. Steve's stomach, including the caribou and rabbit pies, are now located in the septic field of my house. Upon taking his first bite of flipper pie, Dr. Steve exclaimed, while turning a shade of green, that there must be something wrong with the seal meat because it tasted just like fish! Apparently, Dr.Steve, American spy extraordinaire, is deathly allergic to seafood. Just where did he think seals came from and what they eat to survive? Thank Cod for the cod!
Also thankfully, Dr. Steve failed to complete his mission. I suspect that upon returning to the United States last week, he was not warmly received by his masters, those who sought to subvert the society of their friendly northern neighbours. We can likely find Dr. Steve now living somewhere in New Jersey. He is room mates with another disgraced spy, a guy named Mutt.
About the author:
Jim Nixon is a teller of tales, a proud Newfoundlander, and a lover of pie. He is thankful to have wonderful family, friends, and acquaintances who still speak with him after their likenesses are used to spin a yarn. Feel free to send these stories to anyone you think may enjoy them. If you are interested in receiving Jim's stories directly by email, please let him know your email address and he will send you a link to set that up. Jim's email address is nixon_jim@hotmail.com. You can also make your request in the comment section of any of Jim's stories on Blogger. Thanks for following Tales of the Not So Private I.
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