Posted on September 17, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

A large waffle lineup at the Farmer’s Market

 

 

How does a young family lay down roots in a small community?

One waffle at a time.

Sometimes you just have to go with your gut instinct. And if it happens to be lunch hour, you simply go with your gut.

I had often seen the unmistakable yellow “waffle wagon” behind the parking lot at the Post office and at the Farmer’s Market. But only this summer, I’m sorry to admit, did I wander over to sample the goods produced by Alexandre and Nicole at Authentic Belgian Waffles.

Food trucks are popular in many of the large cities in our country, but you don’t see them too often in small town Canada. And more often than not, the fare can tend to be a tad on the greasy side.  Not that I object to some fries or onion rings from time to time.

My granddaughter and I were visiting the library, and at the suggestion of my wife we strolled through the back parking lot as midday approached and took our place in a short lineup. Good thing we got there early, because the lineup swelled as the lunch hour crowd arrived shortly thereafter.  We placed our order and they took our name.  The other people waiting for their food were regulars.  You can just tell.  They come for the food and a chance to get caught up on the news with friends.

My name was called and we headed over to the gazebo. It was one of those amazingly glorious summer mornings.  We sat on the steps with the Brierly Brook gurgling behind us.  The first bite I took was pure bliss and I was immediately hooked.

The food service industry is brutally tough. Especially a seasonal food business.  I don’t see many people in downtown Halifax lining up to get fish and chips in the dead of winter.

It would appear that Nicole and Alex have all the right ingredients for success. The food is very good. Most if not all of their raw material is locally sourced.  They believe in home-grown businesses just like theirs.  They also have the service part well honed.  On my second visit, they remembered my name.

This story is not just about another food option for the residents of Antigonish. It is about entrepreneurship and the need for citizens of our community to support the many young couples and individuals trying to make a go of it in tough economic times.  They work hard, but more importantly, they don’t expect to “have it all” right away.  They love Antigonish and want to stay here.  They want their young families to be immersed in the rich culture that saturates the area.

This young couple is about to make the next big leap. They will keep their wagon, but when the cool winds of fall and winter start to blow, they will be moving indoors to a new permanent location.

I also happen to know that Nicole is a belly dancer. She gives lessons and offered to show me a few steps.  This is not a pretty visual.  If I were to be seen in public busting some belly dance moves, I am quite certain that I would be quickly whisked away.  (No doubt – Editor)

This dynamic duo is determined to put down roots in Antigonish.

No waffling here.  Let’s welcome and encourage Alexandre and Nicole and others like them.

 

 

 

 

Posted on September 12, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Missing car keys? Rubbish, I say

 

It’s not that easy being green Having to spend each day the color of the leaves When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow, or gold Or something much more colorful like that

It’s Not Easy Being Green – Kermit the Frog

People have been recycling for centuries. I grew up in a big family and only the oldest boy or girl got something new to wear.  With eight children in the house, the rest of us got hand me downs … saving the environment one T-shirt at a time.  Except that it was born of economic necessity and back then most things were used over and over until they wore out.  There are many other examples over the centuries of how people have re-used or repurposed household items.

But over the past 25 years or so, recycling has become the centrepiece of waste management programs in virtually every town and city in the developed world. We have been trained to put our food scraps in the composter and to sort all of the other waste.  In our house, like most, we have separate bins for paper products, another for plastics and a third for money backs.  And one for containers that the food bank can use.  Not to mention the indoor and outdoor compost receptacles.  And yes, we even have an old fashioned garbage can for that handful of items that don’t neatly fit into any other category

I should be a pro at this but I recently found out that, despite my best efforts, I had allocated an item in the wrong place. To err is human, to forgive, divine.

Back in the days when I was on Town Council, I was the chair of the recycling committee. I was a greenhorn, for sure.  Several of us toured the province visiting communities who had been doing this for quite some time.  No point in reinventing the wheel.  Of course, our children were getting educated at school about the evils of solid waste dumpsites and were quick to point out transgressions.

If there is one basic law of recycling, it is that the rules are the rules except when they’re not. Just when you have finally figured out where everything should go, when you are a veritable Ph. D in “reduce, reuse and recycle,” you discover an exception that everybody knows about except you.

My wife was away a few weeks ago and I decided to treat myself to some take out, which came in a Styrofoam container. It had the #4 recycling logo on the back.  I dutifully rinsed it in warm water at the conclusion of my meal and fired it in with the plastics.  Styrofoam is not something that enters our house often.

The missus arrived home from a weekend of babysitting, exhausted. In a matter of minutes she had somehow misplaced her car keys.  It took me all of five minutes to discover them, where else, but in the composter.  They had been tossed in there, along with an apple core and a banana peel, as she unloaded the car.  We had a good chuckle and went to bed.

Like one of the Seven Dwarfs, I set out for work on Monday morning, whistling as I went.

When I arrived home for lunch, it was obvious that the garbage police had been to the house. The Styrofoam container had magically transplanted itself from the plastic bin to the kitchen table.  Yogic flying was my first guess.  Emblazoned on the cover of the container was the following: “Styrofoam. Not Recyclable! No! No! No!” A copy of the Eastern Solid Waste Management program rules lay beside it with the words “Styrofoam is always garbage” highlighted in yellow.  There was a P.S. on the side of the packaging: “Do not write a story about this.”

The following text message was sent from yours truly to the recycling policewoman. “Ahem, I got your subtle recycling reminder – you’ll find your keys in the composter.”

I received her reply: “Even Steven!”

It’s really not that easy being green.

 

 

Posted on September 9, 2014 under Storytelling with 3 comments

Fare thee well love

 

 

We all realize that credit cards are a necessary evil.  There may be close to a billion and a half credit cards in use in North America.  It is almost impossible these days to book a hotel or a flight without using a card.  And it is also imperative to have a card in a crisis situation, like an unexpected 50% sale at someone’s favorite department store.

The good news is that, in all likelihood, credit cards will be obsolete by the year 2024.  The bad news is that the last time I checked it was still 2014, so plastic will still be the predominant method to transact business for a few years yet.

Like many prudent Canadians, we are trying to get things in order as we head into retirement.  We are downsizing in order to simplify our lives.  We share one car and, if it was possible, we would only carry one credit card.  While it is tempting to hold onto a card that offers a generous credit limit, we know that this is good for the health of financial institutions and not necessarily our fiscal well-being.

A couple of months ago we decided to cancel one of our cards that hadn’t had a good workout in a while.  The account was in my name and in this age of security and privacy consciousness I was the only one who could cancel it.  The person at the call centre was very disappointed to lose a “valued client” like me.  They only value you when you don’t pay off your balances on a monthly basis.  She assured me that the account had been closed.

Two months later I received a surprise in the mail.  It wasn’t quite a lottery win or a free cruise (my, how the cruises are piling up), but I was startled to learn that the credit card company actually owed me money; 30 cents, to be exact.   I was about to toss the statement in the shredder but my better half strongly suggested (!) that I once again place a call and have the matter laid to rest once and for all.  If not, she opined, I would continue to receive statements, wasting precious trees in the process.

It was a Friday morning.  Everyone loves Friday so what better way to start TGIF than taking care of a small, menacing chore.  I had my statement handy and dialed the 1-800 number.  I played the typical game of charades and dutifully pressed button after button waiting to speak to someone who had a pulse.  I was a bit startled when all of the instructions were delivered in French. With apologies to my Acadian friends in Pomquet, Isle Madame and Cheticamp, I wasn’t quite up to dealing with a long winded explanation of options, en francais.

As my ire grew, I finally heard an English voice:” For English, press 1”.  I am not normally tempted to strangle a phone.

The living, breathing specimen I ended up talking to was a pleasant enough sort.  He started the interrogation in the usual manner. “What is your name? What is your date of birth?” Do you have your credit card with you?”  “Well no” I replied, “I cut it up two months ago when you allegedly closed my account”.  And then, the questions abruptly stopped.  I had failed the security test.  Not only that, there was nothing he could do because the account was no longer active.  Duh.  We were at an impasse and I had to get to work.  To add injury to insult, he told me that I would have to deal with a higher authority in the “security division” which would open in 59 minutes.  It’s a good thing he doesn’t understand Gaelic.

Later in the day, I called and spoke to a helpful agent who put the matter to bed immediately.  And I learned that it could have been handled just as easily earlier that morning.

I can hardly wait for the day that credit cards become a thing of the past.  I dream of the time when I will be able to stand in the bank and simply shout at the top of my lungs, “Give me fifty bucks,” and out the money will come.  Or wave my hand at the grocery clerk to have my purchases paid for, bagged and delivered by the time I get home.

Just like it used to be when cash was king.