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.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
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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