Morning Slip-Slidey Walk

The view that greeted me the morning of Sunday, January 31 after the winter storm of aught-ten that rolled through the South. Sleet, rain, snow, then repeat. Temperature currently just below freezing. Treacherous driving, especially with Southerners on the road who do not have much experience on this stuff. Treacherous walking too. Snow is crusty, ice is just underneath. Pretty though, if you don't have to go anywhere. Schools should be closed for days.

Ten Years

(one of my ads)

Welcome to 2010 my friend! Through the bumps and the tears and the laughter and the beers we have clawed our way, tooth and nail, frail of body and shaky in spirit, into the next decade. Each of us has had our own rocky path to navigate, our own challenges to overcome but here we are. While not exactly waving flags in triumph and dancing the rumba in victory over whatever sledgehammer pies-in-the-face life throws at us, at least we are still limping onward.

Last night, I spent a comfortable New Years Eve with a few friends in a little old house in Tennessee. Ten years ago, who could have predicted such a thing? You never know do you? While I was never much for “Auld Lang Syne,” I am prone to a little reflection at the turning of the year.

Snort! Prone to reflection hell! Memories have been slapping my big white ass all around the Tennessee hills lately. All vivid and shiny they have been, full of tastes and smells and places and faces. I thought for a while, I was of that age when you remember more details about something that happened many moons ago than you do about the breakfast you ate this morning. Who knows, I may be of that age. We’ll see when the day passes. I seem to recall chewing on a banana and Quaker Oatmeal Squares (with a hint of brown sugar) this morning but who knows?

A mere ten years ago, I was living in quiet desperation in Calgary at 15 Ranchglen Drive in a nice house I had owned since 1990, married to a nice, simple woman. I had a nice job, money in my pocket, good friends… and I was bored to tears. I longed to explode into the world, to escape the bonds of a ho-hum existence and experience a more fulfilling life.

Mid-life crisis? Maybe. As self-centered as it sounds, I needed… NEEDED to escape, of that there is no question. It turned out that this crisis was a wake-up call and while the mid-life crisis is viewed as a negative with pot-bellied balding men wanting hot cars and fast women, sometimes it is a voice of reason asking what the hell you are doing with your life and is this all you want out of it. Do not dismiss that voice out-of-hand. Warning - following the advice of that voice is not for the weak but I am here to tell you, I listened to it and... wow.

The intervening years have found my pot-bellied balding brim overflowing. Separation and divorce was pure but truly justified pain. Living in the Big Smoke as an editor and the dear and splendid friends I made while I was there, the healing wonder of the lands I have seen and the people I have met in the months I spent traveling, the exhilaration of going back to school and developing the skills that have made my new life possible, the challenge of running a business, the joy of finding new love, the petty annoyance of those damned kidney stones, the frustration and rewards of moving to the Holy Roman/American Empire and starting a new career within a new culture within a new relationship within a new life.

This last decade has alternately wrenched and touched my heart until I’m not sure I can find the sucker.

But still, it beats. I hear it now and then thumping to me in the night from an undisclosed location.

As this New Year approached and the memories slapped me around, I often saw your face (one of the sweeter slaps). I wanted to let you know you are in my thoughts and my heart and I wish you more joy and happiness than you can possibly stand.

And oh yes, more adventure!

From one beating heart to another with affection, admiration and love.

Dracula

My latest "just for the helluvit" poster project...
(click on it for a bigger view)

Not Crazy, Just Canadian

I took this shot this morning, complete with a Southern mansion in the background. I wish I had more time to take photos for the fun of it. There is a lot to shoot here.

Oh, I do take photos. I write and design and do all the things I love to do for work. But there is a heap of it and I do it mostly on my own time and with my own equipment because in this PBS non-profit, there are no resources and no time to spare for things that require concentration once you are in the daily melee. I'm not complaining, I'm just saying. Well, maybe I'm complaining just a little.

Dad was here for Canadian Thanksgiving. So was my friend Terry. Elisabeth was off for the week they were here and I took a couple of days off so I could spend time with them. We did it up right with turkey and taters and all of the trimmings. It made me long for home, what with the drinking Innis and Gunn, which Terry brought down with him, and talking like Canucks. It reminded me that I'm not crazy, I'm just Canadian. I took them to Chattanooga and the Aquarium and the Imax and the Choo Choo and we drove them around the Tennessee countryside. It rained the whole time but we enjoyed ourselves. Here's Dad eating breakfast with his friend Sweet Pea (Dad's the one with his back to the camera).

We had to get up at 3:00 AM on the 19th to get Dad to the Nashville airport in time for his 6:16 AM flight. Not many people on the Interstate at that time on a Sunday morning. I think I'll do that every time I drive on that highway. I won't have to put up with so many bloody big trucks. I-40 is one big rig after another.

This afternoon, I'm off to the Bacchanal. Bacchus was the Greek God of wine and intoxication which may give you a hint as to the nature of the Bacchanal. It is a fundraiser for the Appalachian Center for Crafts (a division of Tennessee Tech University). Forty bucks buys you admittance and as much wine and beer as you can consume, plus the chance to bid on art. It is always wise to combine drinking with spending money I always say. Not surprisingly, this is one of the Craft Center's most successful fundraisers. Elisabeth is working the event and WCTE is one of the media sponsors so I get in free.

Anyhow I wanted to let y'all know that I am still alive and feebly kicking. Please find a minute, drop me a line and let me know what is new in your lives.

Cheers!!!

Little Bits of Canada

When I was a sprout, there was a flurry of commercials in Canada about Red Rose Tea. Being a kid of sophisticated taste, my favorite ad involved chimps. To this day, when someone asks me what kind of tea I prefer, I purse my ape-like lips, lift my googly eyes to stare at the ceiling and say “Red-Red-Red-Red-Red-Rose”, just like my chimpanzee buddies of old. You should see the looks of admiration I receive! And then there's those cool Red Rose music playing chimps...

For years the tagline of the tea was “Only in Canada you say? Pity!” But now the tea has made a splash in the States and a blend of this tea of chimps may be found on grocery shelves in Cookeville, TN.

My friend Terry (great card, thank you) treated us to some special Confederation beer in Calgary. Pip Pip Terry, jolly good show Inspector Clouseau, you certainly can’t find Confederation beer in the States. You will, however, find Moosehead and Molson in the stores.


And then there are the donuts. You have to tip your toque to Tim Horton’s eh? According to Wikipedia, Tim is the number one fast food joint in Canada, commanding 76% of the Canadian market for baked goods and 62% for coffee (Starbucks is #2 at 7%). It has expanded into the US (just saw a story about Tim taking over a former Dunkin Donuts in New York City) and there is a Tim’s as far away as a military base outside Kandahar, Afghanistan. While there is a Tim in Afghanistan, we are still bereft Tims south of the Mason Dixon Line. It is only a matter of time.

(Speaking of Kandahar, howdy to my friend Pickle. How ARE the donuts over there? What does an Afghan donut taste like? Any different than the ones back home?)

There is a certain comfort, and strangely enough, a pride when you live so far away and you find a little bit of home in a local store. This is especially true in places like Kandahar but it is true here too. While Canada has made an impact throughout the world with the big, significant stuff, when you are living “away”, it is often the little things, like tea and beer and donuts that make your day.

Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk Honk, etc.

Yesterday I unloaded the trailer that we had packed in Calgary. Now I can take the lifting and the toting. I can even take the heaps of humidity and the 83-degree temperature (higher in the trailer). But what I had trouble taking was Bruce the goose with his insistent honking and honking that nearly drove me bananas. I literally could have wrung his neck. He wanted food, he wanted company, and he has taken to following me around whenever I am outside now that the Canadian geese have flown off and left him to his own devices.

Sheesh Bruce, get a life eh? Stop with the honking and honking. Go fly off with your Canadian buddies. Anybody want a free goose? Thanksgiving is just around the corner and he’s a big, strapping lad with hefty drumsticks!

In spite of the infernal honking, the unloading is all done. A guy needs his stuff and opening the boxes is like finding lost treasure. Thanks to my buddy Neil for storing my treasures for what seems like forever.

And oh yeah, honk honk from dumb ole Bruce.

Highlights From July 2009

Big Sky Country

I returned from a 10-day trip to my home and native land on July 31. I was in desperate need of an injection of family and friends. It was invigorating to breathe the dry, clean Alberta air, feel the
vastness of the prairies, wonder at the beauty of an unobstructed sunset on the horizon and to step foot among the mighty Rockies again. To those of you whose faces I had the pure pleasure of seeing – thank you. I love all y’all.

So when are you coming down, eh?

Very Important Indeed

I accepted a promotion while I was on my Canadian excursion. I am now the Director of Something Very Important Indeed at our little PBS station. It means I’ll have a dollar or two more in my pocket. It also means that I have to put on my big boy pants and manage staff. Some of them are a little cranky. It should be good for a laugh or a scream or two along the way.

Uncle Bruce & The Raptors

Work has been quicksand and I've been sucked in like a two ton hippo.

Oh but today, ahhh today my friend, is different. I probably should be writing the Membership Guide or marketing for that never-ending Music Man but screw it. I want to sit here, sip on my Coke Zero, listen to Folk Alley and catch you up for a spell. It will do my heart good.

You are probably wondering about the title. Uncle Bruce and the Raptors. Good name for a band, don't'cha think?

Bruce was our goose when first we moved to the country. He came with the joint and his bestest livelong pal was Chuck the Duck. Like Laurel and Hardy, where Bruce waddled, there waddled Chuck.

Then a flock of Canadians flew in, and we all know how magnetic those strong silent pooping types from the north can be. Bruce got the goose pimples when he got a load of their charms and began to honk along with them, leaving behind the blindly faithful Chuck. When the Canadians had chicks, Bruce became the weird uncle Fester, doting on the young'uns. When they grew up and flew away, Bruce deserted Chuck and followed his newfound Canadian family.

This spring Bruce appeared again with a couple of Canadians, who in turn had two chicks. As the chicks matured, I found that when they ran, they looked a little prehistoric, like two legged dinosaurs, so I began to refer to the tribe as Uncle Bruce and the Raptors. As they gather in their musk ox protective circle position, all neck and stabbing beak, guess which one is Uncle Bruce.



A couple of weeks ago, I was supposed to photograph a parade and I spotted Pres. Lincoln hanging with some Johnny Rebs. I wandered up to the Pres. and a Reb and holding up my camera, asked if I could shoot them, quickly apologizing to Mr. Lincoln for my unfortunate choice of words. Once in the parade, Mr. Lincoln led the way with the Rebs close behind. While I was sweating my ass off running along the route, Elisabeth was watching the parade with some friends. When one asked her what she thought of Lincoln leading a bunch of Confederates, she replied that they were probably chasing him.

On July 4, I attended the Smithville Fiddler's Jamboree as part of the WCTE crew. Basically it is a competition for fiddlers, cloggers, square dancers and musicians of all shapes and sizes, with the country-gospel-bluegrass-kinda folky flavour.


There is always action on the mainstage and the station covers the two day event from the top of our remote production truck. Pictured on top of the truck is Becky Magura, my friend and the President of WCTE, along with a chap name of Steve Boots, who doesn't work for the station anymore but has co-hosted the Jamboree for years.

That's all fine and dandy. However, what really turned my crank was what was happening under the trees and lamp posts around the town square.

No, not that! Holy crap, clean it up folks! C'mon now, I'm talking music and jamming of the spontaneous variety. Behind the craft booths, plunking and playing away, were musicians of all shapes and sizes, from the wrinkly and smelly to the fresh faced and melodic.

Hypothesize, my dear friend, where on the scale of wrinkly and smelly this old fart fit. Did you guess "melodic?" He could barely croak out a "yeah, I guess" when I asked if I could take his picture. But after a few minutes of strumming his guitar, he came out with the prettiest rendition of "Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in Loooove." It was so unexpected, like the punchline of a good joke, that I almost laughed. Almost. Surprises like that are pure joy and he must have reckoned I was half crazy, grinning like an insane mule.

Just for the heck of it, here are a couple more of my favourite shots from the Jamboree .