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.
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