Posted on November 1, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

The scales of injustice

 

 

“I once was lost, but now am found …” – Amazing Grace, by John Newton

Is there anything more perplexing than dieting?

Is there such a thing as an ideal weight?

Have you ever tried to lose a few pounds?

We were having a family meal the other day and I decided to take a pass on dessert. I do this occasionally to prove to myself that I have a shred of will power. It usually only lasts a few days.  Someone asked me if I was on a diet and the conversation took off like the first grassfire in spring.  Sometimes grassfires get out of control.

Have you been scarred by Scarsdale or beached by the South Beach diet? At some point in time most of us have tried to shed a few pounds and in some cases a lot more than that.  No matter how you slice it or the words you use (“I’m trying a new lifestyle”), it all comes back to that singular and oft times devastating word: diet.

They say that maintaining a healthy weight is nothing more than discipline. Fat chance.  Finding your “fighting weight” and staying there is a lifelong war for most mortals.  There are many battles along the way but face it; it is a long-term campaign.

Mary and John had finished a delicious supper and, after weeks of dieting, Mary decided to treat both of them to a pan of brownies with chocolate icing. They breezed through the first row of the pan and she tucked it out of sight.  After work the following day Mary was feeling a bit peckish and decided that one little brownie before the evening meal wouldn’t be too harmful.  Unfortunately, the rest of the pan became supper.  Good thing that John was out of town overnight on business.

She realized with a good deal of trepidation that John would probably inquire about the remaining brownies upon his return. Mary dutifully baked another pan, let them cool, iced them and proceeded to eat the first row.  John would never know the difference.  True story.  Names have been changed …

I have dieted and I am a self-confessed cheater. Admit it; we all cheat from time to time.  I recently had my annual checkup and for the first time in many years my “slightly elevated “cholesterol readings had actually dropped, along with my weight.  I boasted to my physician that my secret was regular exercise and ground flaxseed.

What beast resides in our brains that just can’t leave well enough alone? Why do we insist on going hog wild the day after we lose a few pounds?  I had scarcely left the doctor’s office when I sped across the parking lot to Sobeys and grabbed two big bags of ripple chips.  “More fat per square inch than regular chips – that’s what makes them so good!” chirped my spouse.  I mean they were on sale, after all, and who am I to pass up a bargain?

We were admiring a recent photo of my niece who is in her early forties and can still fit into a dress that she wore in grade 9. Another family member piped up that she can do better than that; the earrings that she wore as a teenager still fit!  I’m glad to hear that her earlobe exercises are doing the trick.

Most experts have concluded that people ought to spend more time in the kitchen than the gym. Making good nutrition choices is a much more important exercise.  A meal of convenience or fast food is very tasty and a little too easy to obtain and consume.  And that is no accident – the big companies have designed it that way.  Go slow and cook from scratch for savings all around.

The ultimate test in dieting is the “weigh-in”. It is not uncommon to starve oneself the day before. Some people take this to extremes.  One individual confessed that on her way to her Weight Watchers meeting one day she spit repeatedly into an empty Styrofoam cup during the drive.  How much does saliva weigh?

I bumped into a buddy the other day who struggles with his yo-yo weight just like the rest of us. I knew that the 2014 diet was well underway.  I asked him how things were going.  “I wanted to lose 10 pounds this year.  Only 13 to go.”

One man’s loss is another’s gain.

Posted on October 30, 2014 under Thursday Tidbits with one comment

Antiques galore

 

 

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

I’m not sure who gets credit for this oft quoted adage but there is a great deal of truth in it. Not everyone subscribes to this.

Many people are in such a rush to get to their destination,  that they sometimes forget to take time to appreciate the scenery. And I’m not just talking about mountains and rivers. People start wishing for Friday on Mondays. They spend all of their lives dreaming about the day they can retire, instead of embracing each day. And when it comes to travel, the shortest distance between two points seems to be the goal.

I should know. I have been guilty of all these things at one point or another.

The picture above was taken in downtown Bangor. No one goes to downtown Bangor. Everyone in the Maritimes drives or takes bus tours to Maine. The objective is to either bypass Bangor altogether or, if they are going shopping, a trip to the Bangor Mall is a must.

We decided to take a break from the driving and “take the road less travelled” and go into downtown Bangor.

The Antique Marketplace and Café has to be one of the most interesting places that I`ve ever been. It has acres of antiques and knick knacks and a wonderful old fashioned café with terrific food. I had a chat with Leann, the waitress who has been doing this line of work forever. We came to the conclusion that veterans like her are a mixture of weather people, travel agents, psychologists, doctors, financial advisors and mothers to the many people who pour out their hearts to these “grand dames. I thought this might be a great story idea so coming soon, look for “Counter Culture.”

You knew that I would be writing about our trip to Florida and I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint you. At the end of day 2, we found ourselves hunkered down at the Comfort Inn in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. ( technically, it’s Pittson PA ). Now Wilkes- Barre is best known for three reasons: it is the home of Planters Peanuts, hurricane Agnes ravaged the city in 1972 and one of its beloved hockey heroes is our own Dennis Bonvie.

We checked in at the end of a long day and were met at the front desk by Bobbi and Becky. I asked for the senior’s rate and for some inexplicable reason, they didn’t ID me! We were only in our room a short time when we received a call from Becky. She wanted to make sure everything was satisfactory with the room and invited us for a complimentary buffet at suppertime… manager appreciation day. Nice touch. I met the general manager Eliza briefly and gave her a copy of my new book to share with the staff.

Well I don’t know too many Maritimers who will pass up a free meal of brown beans and pulled pork especially when there is complimentary wine and beer. We even sat around with some of the staff after the meal, including the sales manager, “Princess Stephanie.”  Later in the evening, Betty called the front desk to see if they had a separate room that she could get. I overheard something about the aftermath of the brown beans.

It’s funny how some places you stay have the knack of making you feel right at home. I highly recommend this place if you happen to be driving through Sidney Crosby country.

Glad you enjoyed “ Trouble in Paradise.”

Have a great week.

Easy on the Halloween candy.

 

One more antique

Posted on October 29, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Paradise lost

 

 

Quickly. What is Nova Scotia’s greatest export? Is it lobster?  How about blueberries or Keith’s beer?  Wrong, wrong and wrong.  The correct answer is people.  Sadly, we have been forced to send some of our best and brightest far afield ever since Confederation destroyed our north/south economy.  And while it can be argued that hard rock miners, pipefitters and welders are among the most talented people we’ve bade farewell, there has been one class of individuals that dwarf all of these by sheer volume.

Teachers.

The laws of supply and demand have conspired to work against the teaching profession. We continue to produce an overabundance of teachers for a dwindling population.  With more degree granting institutions than Heinz has pickles, Nova Scotia has been supplying teachers to Alberta to Nunavut to Newfoundland for a very long time, as permanent teaching jobs in Nova Scotia have been as scarce as honest politicians.

And when we go across Canada to educate young minds, we bring more than a Bachelor of Education degree. We bring our culture, our civic pride and in some cases, unbridled enthusiasm.  We can have a kitchen party any day of the week, for any occasion.  We Bluenoses, home-grown and adopted, take our history seriously.   We have proudly carried on the traditions of the early French settlers who created “The Order of Good Cheer”.  Not to mention the Scottish milling frolics and musical heritage that is alive and well to this day.  And, as my wife says when things begin to spin out of control – “It’s the Irish”.  Sometimes we celebrate a major holiday while other times the triggering event can be as mundane as the first snowfall … or the first Thursday of the week.  Any port in a storm, as they say.

While not wishing to single out any institution of higher learning, St .F. X. graduates are known to possess that elusive and sometimes hard to describe, “X spirit”. And when a few Xaverians are gathered around a kitchen table, trouble can appear on the horizon.

Several newly minted teachers descended upon an unsuspecting small town in the Peace River country many years ago. Like many Maritimers, they didn’t object to blowing off a bit of steam at the end of the work week.  Sometimes Monday revealed the carnage from the weekend but the crew always showed up for duty.  As employees of a Catholic School Board, attendance at church wasn’t mandatory but it was expected.

One memorable Good Friday, the guys decided to take a pass on the afternoon service and chose instead to have an outdoor party.   It was the first beautiful day in April after a bitterly cold and snowy Alberta winter.  Besides ample food and drink, large speakers from the stereo system were dragged out into the back yard.  The woofers woofed and the tweeters tweeted and the party raged on.

One thing of note … the party house was in the backyard of the church. The first person to exit the Good Friday Mass was the school principal.  Needless to say he was not amused.  Luckily, Easter Monday is a school holiday in Alberta.

Another group of “X” grads ended up in La Belle Province back in the 70’s. These young ladies took up residence in one of Canada’s truly great cities, Montreal.  They too ended up in a Catholic School Board.  Other trailblazers from home had warned this crop of rookies that absenteeism due to alcohol was a serious no-no and could result in losing their jobs.  They dismissed this with a shrug.

Some friends from home showed up one time for a mid-week visit. The beer flowed.  And even though the drinking and driving laws were more lax back then, why would you bother when you could simply dial up the neighborhood dépanneur and have cold beer delivered to your door.  One home delivery that left the store owner scratching his head (on party day #3) was for two cases of beer, a large bag of potato chips and a box of Band-Aids.

On the day following the first night of partying, one of the girls missed school. On day two, another gal was down for the count and on day three the trifecta was complete as the last of these stalwart women succumbed to the “forty ounce flu”.

There is only one thing worse than missing school because of self-induced illness. And that is not being invited to the party.  A friend of the women caught wind of the revelry as it hurtled into its death throes. He was slightly miffed at the snub.

The phone rang in the three bedroom apartment. “I would like to speak to Jan,” said the voice on the other end of the line.  The voice asked her how she was feeling that day.  She admitted that she had flu-like symptoms.  The School Board doctor wondered if she wouldn’t mind getting dressed and coming down to the Board offices to be checked over, including a blood test.  He also asked her a few questions about her medical history.

Jan’s face was ashen for more than one reason. She was nearly speechless as she pondered her imminent dismissal.  Far worse than being sent packing was the vision of meeting the “welcoming party”; her parents, as she arrived in disgrace at the train station in Antigonish.

These thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to process the request. She agreed to the blood test but resisted giving her medical history.  When the doctor pushed she relented and admitted to having had her tonsils out when she was four.

At this point, the voice on the other end of the line went into hysterics. The “doctor” turned out to be the friend whose party invitation had apparently been misplaced by the postman.  After the near cardiac arrest, the blood returned to Jan’s face.

Several days later she remembered an old adage that she reworked in her head: “Hell hath no fury like a Maritimer scorned.”