Support Your Local Library

The Saint John Free Public Library - the emphasis is on "free" because it is Canada's first free public library - is a golden opportunity to expand your horizons right at your very fingertips.  I don't intend this to be about the history of the library, but the hows, whys, whens and wheres are just too interesting to omit.

The idea first germinated in 1874, but was put on hold because of the Great Fire of 1877 - it's tradition to bow your head at the mention of this reverent event - so it didn't reach fruition until 1883 when it occupied a room at the City Market.  From there it went to the Masonic Hall on Germain Street and in 1904 it finally had its own splendid building - thanks to a donation from Andrew Carnegie, no less - on Hazen Avenue.

Increasing circulation is a challenge for all libraries and, apparently, the powers that be were enamored with the success of their idea to open the Maritime's first library branch in a mall on the west side of the city in 1967, so in 1983 the main branch was moved from this treasured bit of architecture to Market Square - a glistening modern atmosphere so perfectly suited that it seems it may possess the same interior as it did then.  As I said, they must have loved that mall idea because the east branch is in a mall too.

Now that our history lesson is over, let's get back to why it's in your interest to make use of the borrowing resources contained within the cement walls of your library.

First, it's important to note that the Saint John library is just a cog in the vast New Brunswick Public Library system. This means you can borrow from any library in the province.  Now for a wonderful annotation to this fact: until recently CDs and DVDs were not transferable within regions - I know, that made no sense whatsoever - and there were often two copies of the same album in one region, but none in any other region, let alone your own.  But now that restriction has been lifted, so rejoice!

Next, while the library system doesn't have the extensive inventory available in most of the modern world, you can take solace knowing that if there is something that you want, there won't likely be much of a wait - it doesn't seem as though anyone actually borrows from libraries in Saint John.  Before moving here, I used to make good use of my privileges at my branch of the Halifax Public Library where I would put items on hold, sometimes having to wait weeks for one of their scores of copies to become available, then having to find my name alphabetically amongst walls of shelved material that others had put on hold.  There's none of that here - my first trip to a branch in Saint John saw me asking the librarian to do all the work, having to find my name in the little shelf of requested items while all I had to do was wait and watch.

As an aside, I have The Essential Bruce Springsteen serenading me as I write this article, proving there is some fantastic material to be found.  This is relevant because in other library systems borrowing CDs or DVDs is often futile, having to hope the item isn't too scratched up to actually play - especially on the old, run-down equipment I employ.  Springsteen's vocals, put on this CD in 2003, come clear and unscratched - well, as clear and unscratched as a Springsteen vocal can sound - looking as though the item was just purchased yesterday.

The hours may seem a little odd for a city library, some may even think they would contribute to the lack of circulation, but they do have a drop box with padding at the bottom to try and keep the contents of that special CD together, even if you forget the rubber band it came wrapped in.

Finally, I'd like to let you in on my secret on how I do a little extra to support my local library.  It used to bother me if, when I was in Halifax where their financial pockets seemed a veritable bottomless pit of wealth, I managed to rack up a fine.  Here they will actually extend the due date by a few days, so don't fret if the due date seems too soon, but should I not be able to make it on time, I just view that as my little donation to an important community resource (even more important if it was actually utilized by the community) and know that the item will be waiting on the shelf for me the next time I'm in the mood for The Boss.

Fundy Library Region Book Sale

One of the great things about living in Saint John is the ability to add to my collection of Nova Scotia related items inexpensively.  Nobody here seems to want Nova Scotia stuff.  May 3rd and 4th marks the Fundy Library Region's 26th annual book sale and I stopped by after closing the studio Friday evening.

I am already enjoying one of my finds - A Basket of Apples: Recollections of Historic Nova Scotia, a reminiscent hard cover with choice photos.  Harry Bruce provides the musings while Chic Harris shows his photography skills, and both are excellent so far.

The inscription on the first page sold me though, "To Dad, Top o' the morning to you.  Love Josie, Randy & Jon.  March 17, 1983," written in blue ballpoint with clean, plain, round feminine letters.  I'm guessing Josie wrote this.  Perhaps dad was from Nova Scotia and had moved here, to the most Irish city in Canada, and started a family and this book caught Josie's eye in a book store back in 1983.

Yesterday's adventures also included a dreaded, but necessary trip to the emergency department.  Thankfully, we were in and out quickly, but with a couple prescriptions to fill, so we headed for the only pharmacy we knew was open after 9pm, albeit only to 10pm.

While waiting for Holly's drugs, I took my blood pressure then browsed the aisles for sales.  After finding a big 100g  chocolate bar on sale for $1.39, with a dollar off coupon attached - a 39¢ bar of chocolate! - I checked the price for low dose aspirin.

Turning the corner, there was only one other person in the aisle, a small boy - looking intently at the assortment of pain killers.  He was sturdy - not fat - with short dark hair and dark features and didn't seem to come up to my waste in height.  Seeing nothing on sale, I noticed in my peripheral vision that he had turned to look at me, staring without reservation the way only small children can.

"I saw you at the hospital," he stated confidently when he saw I took notice of him.

"You did?" I replied, smiling, trying to generate some degree of interest in the tone of my voice, still working on getting through a long day.

"I had to see the doctor and get some medicine for my ear," he told me, pointing out the hospital bracelet around his wrist.

"Well, I'm glad you'll be feeling better soon," I told him, and as I headed back toward the pharmacy counter I recognized his mother speaking with the pharmacist.  She seemed young, but a little more pulled together than most young mothers that can be found at the hospital so often.

"He's 41 or 42 pounds," she responded to the druggist's inquiry, looking back to see that her son had returned from his foray.

Life doesn't always happened as planned, but gems can be found when you need to detour.

The Cardinal

You silently requested a cardinal

So many years ago, so it came.

I heard you and, as soon as you were ready, I came.

I listened.  And for as long as you recognize that,

You'll see cardinals and robins and jays.

When I was little - we're talking seven or eight - I wanted a desk.  A big, wooden desk, not unlike the one my teacher sat behind.  One day I came home from school to find one in the spare bedroom that my father had adopted from the Power Commission.  It was huge and heavy, solidly constructed of oak, just like those desks you see people giving away online or for cheap prices at used furniture stores because they weigh too much to move.  I loved it.  Not long after it was left behind because it was too big for the truck carrying our fleeing family to Halifax.  I cried for many losses that day.

My favourite colour has always been red - excepting a brief flirtation with pink when I was just learning the subtleties of childhood rebellion.  I asked my mother to make me red pants when I was little, and she did.  I coloured dinosaurs red, until I was told they should be brown or grey.  I tried to make the Montreal Canadiens my favourite team because I loved the way the uniforms popped on the hockey cards I collected - I couldn't do it though, there's no reasonable justification for liking that team, even for a six year old.

I noticed, really noticed, my first blue jay when I was a young adult and stood outside the apartment building door marveling at the colour.  It wasn't brown or grey or white.  It was spectacular.  Then I wondered why there aren't red birds.  The orange on a robin is wonderful, but they are often so haggled looking, having braved a Maritime winter and orange isn't red.  Why weren't there cardinals in Nova Scotia?  I supposed cardinals only lived in exotic locales, such as St. Louis.

In 2010 I met my soul mate, someone I've been looking for, knowing full well she existed somewhere, since I was born and it wasn't long after that I moved to Saint John.  One day, while standing at the kitchen window doing the dishes, a chore with whom I have a strange relationship, I saw red in the tree.  There was my cardinal.  He had a mate.

I hadn't seen this pair for a couple weeks, they seemed to have been replaced by robins, but this morning I noticed the missus as she coquetted shamelessly with the tiny window on our neighbour's garage, a behaviour she has become known for, as her man waited patiently nearby.  I was glad to see them.

In the animal world, I have learned, red is a dangerous colour.  It is actually a defense.  It warns predators that this is not a meal that will sit well if digested.  I wonder how this applies to my attraction to this chroma.

Now I know that if I truly want something, it will come.  When I'm ready to see that I really do want it, it will be there for me.  And, as long as I know this, it will stay for as long as I need.  I have always wanted a Canadian 1921 five cent piece, but with my newfound knowledge, I think I'll aim even higher.

Minor League Football

While having my hair cut with Barb at Hairacy's, we discussed softball and volleyball around Saint John and I realized that growing up, I lived for sports.  They were essential for my survival.  My friends and I played from when we got up for as long as light would let us in the summer, and immediately after school to bedtime in the winter.  We played everything we could: hockey, baseball, football, soccer... anything.

We usually had to improvise since organized sports in our circle was rare.  A couple friends played hockey at its lowest level, but the monetary commitment and amount of time involved wasn't something to which our parents could or would commit.

This led to the Armdale Executioners street hockey team, The Cowie Hill Open golf course, tennis under a relatively nearby street lamp at three in the morning, and many more extraordinary uses of our rich imaginations along with the desire to be like those kids with the uniforms.

In junior high, I somehow heard of a minor league football team accepting tryouts.

"They provide the equipment," a classmate told me.

Incredulous, but hopeful, I looked in the yellow pages for someone who knew of this place.  A number of well-placed calls eventually led to me being given the number for the coach, I phoned and was told that although I had already missed a number of practices, I was welcome to come.

After school the next day, I walked the few miles to the football field and was outfitted with shoulder pads, those short padded pants and a helmet.  "You'll need cleats and a cup too."

I had no clue how to play organized football.  My friends and I had played lots, but we considered ourselves very lucky if there was four to a team, so rules were improvised.  You played offense and defense.  Positions such as guard, tackle, etc. didn't exist.  And a play consisted of, "I'll fake the hand-off to Jeff, then John will be open in the end zone."

"What position are you trying out for, kid?"

"I usually play quarterback, but sometimes running back," I replied noticing the confident older players currently vying for those positions.

"We'll try you at right guard."

I may as well have been placed on another planet.  Other than the football, the practice equipment was completely foreign and the drills were entirely unfamiliar.  They were out of  play-books, so I was told to try to find time to study a team-mate's.  There was only one on the team from my neighbourhood and he wasn't exactly willing to share.

Guard is not a complicated position, but it's amazingly stifling when you're used to quarterback.  "Block the opposing player, but you can never use your hands or a holding penalty could hurt the entire team.  Yes, he can use his hands.  You can't hit him if he gets past you, that's clipping.  On certain plays you'll need to pull, so you need to know those plays."  It seemed stupid to point out I didn't have a  play-book.

After slipping around the field that entire first practice, my father thought I may need cleats.  He took me to Simpsons-Sears bargain basement and we took a look at what they had available.  There were no football cleats in my size, besides they were pricey.  There was a pair of soccer cleats, an infinitely unpopular game at that time, that were almost the correct size, so we got those.  The only difference between soccer and football  footwear is the missing cleat at the front of the shoe used for digging in and leveraging forward.  I guessed soccer players didn't have to move forward as much and never had to push back opposing players trying to tackle the guy with the ball.

At fourteen, I was certainly able to figure out the importance of a cup, but since I never had one at any other time in my life, it wasn't at all concerning we didn't consider one now.  Just for the record, I don't have any children.

There was an odd sort of unexpected pride felt carrying the football gear to school for practice after it let out.  My photo even made the local paper when a reporter wrote about the upcoming season.  I was throwing a clip as the opposing tackle tried to get our star running back.  I still have the photo  somewhere.

After a number of practices, the coach pulled three of us aside and told us we weren't going to be cut, but he hoped we would try a little harder to learn the plays.  After a couple of the veteran players told us that meant we wouldn't be used on the team, the three of us ended up turning in our equipment at the end of practice.

"When is your first game," my father asked one night over the phone.

"I was cut," I told him.

Autographs by Post

I collect autographs.  When you live in an east coast Canadian city like Saint John or Halifax, you have to be creative to obtain signatures from the stars.  So, years ago I began mailing requests to celebrities hoping for a response.

Recently, I found a few letters that were never mailed and I'd like to share them with you because I believe it is important to share some of the secrets that make make you a successful philographist.

Send a SASE (self-addressed, stamped envelope) with your request.  Even though stars make lots of money dancing and such, they aren't going to pay for your stamp.  Add a stamp for a couple extra cents because it sometimes takes years for a busy celebrity to respond and you wouldn't want it returned to sender.  Don't forget about geography either.  That Canadian stamp won't work if the target is US based.

Send a hand-written note requesting their autograph.  Make it personal, but not too long (bloggers should excel at this).  If you have the capabilities, you may want to try one of my patented tricks - write it with your left hand (if you're right handed), it makes you appear younger and makes it more difficult for the person to refuse your request.

On a similar vein, it's not considered to be in good taste to lie to elicit sympathy.  Don't say you have a terminal disease when you don't, but it is certainly encouraged to identify with your particular luminary's struggles to form a bond.

Make certain you send the item you want autographed.  Be it a photo, a sport card or a plain index card, doing this will increase your chances for success and, if they happen to have an extra 8x10 laying around, you just may receive a little bonus.

Don't tell them that you pay their salary by supporting their work.  It doesn't work to get out of speeding or jaywalking tickets and it will ensure your letter ends up in the bottom of a waste basket or tossed out of the window of a speeding  limousine.

Be aware of autopens.  You may get your item back signed, but that doesn't necessarily mean they signed it.  Many who get  copious amounts of requests use this device and it is not considered a true autograph.  Some simply have their  secretaries  sign things.  Margaret Atwood's infamous LongPen puts things in a bit of a grey area, but definitely saves on travel costs for those draining book tours.

Next post will have those examples mentioned above, so be sure to check back to see how to properly word an autograph request to give you the highest probability of achieving your goal.

Serena Ryder

Serena Ryder is a fireplug ready to go off.  At her recent concert at the Imperial Theatre in Saint John, NB she delivered life like a gospel preacher before the rapture - no small feat in that venerable space - even getting some dancing in the aisles.

I first saw Serena in concert in Halifax at St. Matthew's Church in November of 2009 and have been extolling her abilities ever since.

Amid the apprehension of an impending storm, Holly and I sat down in the new Ta-Ke Sushi on King Street needing some respite from an unforgiving winter.

"Is she like Sarah Harmer or will she move on the stage?" dance-girl Holly inquired.

"It'll be fun," I smirked back.

Satiated with yam and avocado makimono, miso soup, and green tea, we started, after a quick stop at the studio, on the slippery incline toward the Imperial, found some over-priced chocolate for dessert and were ushered to our eighth row middle seats.

Montreal born Danielle Duval showed her fearlessness taking the stage with only a guitar and her camera as she opened the concert with some songs from her album Of the Valley and tossed in a brilliantly brave cover of Grease's "You're the One that I Want" that was featured on the soundtrack for Californication.

Ryder chose the certain-hit "What I Wouldn't Do" to open the show and showed off the stuff her newest album, Harmony, is made of.  With polished repartee and a few on-stage local guests, she charmed the audience from start to finish, disporting her abilities with various guitars and a small fortress of drums.

And then there's her most-treasured instrument - her voice.  Her self-proclaimed idols - Etta James (At Last) and Nina Simone (anything she wanted) - had nothing on Serena's modulations, despite her recent troubles with "losing" this gift.

Her performances sound so much like her recordings I found myself looking for cues that would signal to me that she wasn't pulling a Beyonce, it's that good and no, she definitely wasn't.

Serena delivers a real show - the band, lighting, technical effects all combine with her vocalizations, intrumentations and dramatic costumes to showcase the smart, tribal, sorceress she has become.

Holly and I left the sermon with renewed spirits and looked out upon King Square to find the ground we expected to be white and nasty was still mostly bare.  It was a March miracle.

One Degree, Not Six

"Don't they do this test in New Brunswick?"

Holly confirmed to the hospital receptionist in Halifax that they do definitely do have the ability to administer this medical test in Saint John.

"Couldn't your doctor ask for the test to be done there?"

She couldn't because Holly's doctor isn't registered in the New Brunswick computer database.

"Couldn't your doctor there have ordered it?"

The receptionist, only asking these questions out of personal curiosity and registering Holly for her test while conversing, appeared both surprised and sorrowful to hear that there are no available doctors in Saint John.

A quick online search and a phone call was all it took to land a family doctor in Halifax and this test was why we made the four hour trip exactly a week before Christmas.  We made the most of the hours in Halifax by having brunch with two of my sisters and exchanging hugs and gifts over the excellent food at Heartwood Restaurant on Quinpool Road.  Having to close our new studio for a day so close to Christmas was not something we took lightly, but health trumps money - or so should be the case.

Late December road trips (the first day of winter, my birthday, and seemingly, the end of the world are only three days away) are always a concern in Canada too.  On our return trip, just past Sussex, the temperature gauge on the car's control panel indicated that the air had chilled to freezing and the light drizzle we had picked up just after Moncton had changed to big, fat snowflakes and the painted white segmented lines on the highway began to fade.  The road had quickly become a treacherous mess with the centimetre or two that had fallen and we were creeping along near 30kms per hour.

"The sign says there's an exit to Norton in six kilometres," Holly informed me.

Is there anything in Norton?  The two cars behind indicated their intention to take the off ramp, so we followed suit.  Lo and behold, at the bottom of the ramp, an Irving sign glowed through the snow.  This would be so pretty if we were safe at home, I commented.

A handful of cars and a couple tractor trailers sat watching the highway in the service station's (and liquor store) lot and nearly two hours past.  This precipitation was no surprise, nor was the temperature or the wind chill that accompanied the gusting winds, there was no indication any salt had been laid on the highway.  During our time watching from the Irving, we saw two plows going our way, the off ramp was plowed once, but not the on ramp.  Then another plow passed and everyone seemed to decide that it was time to venture out.

The tractor trailers took a number of attempts to get up the covered ramp and the cars crawled their way to the highway.  We prepared the car and went into the service station for any last necessities, still unsure of setting out for the last 55kms to Saint John.

"Are there any motels in the area?" Holly asked one of the seasoned clerks.

It turned out the closest would mean back-tracking 18kms to Sussex.  This was what the clerk recommended, adding "They say a plow just went by, so going from experience there isn't likely to be another 'til morning."

I found that statement to be so incredulous that I struggled to believe it, but was most disturbed with her delivery of it, as she was neither upset by this neglect nor seemingly aware that situations like this were certainly not normal in other parts of the country.

Put off with the prospect of traveling a significant distance in the wrong direction, Holly and I agreed to attempt the journey home, noting that we had water and food should we have to camp out on the side of the road.  We crawled most of the way, but made it safely, albeit completely unnerved, to the untouched slushy streets of home.

How to Defend your Manhood with Chanel

I had a rather vivid dream last night and I am reaching out for help to understand its meaning.  I have no access to professional help, if it's even needed, so my mental well-being lies in your hands.

Holly and I had a somewhat substantial role in a celebrity soccer match.  The teams were sprinkled with professional European footballers and every day people donated money to charity for the chance to play with these stars.

The game was close, ending with me scoring the winning goal in extra time on a penalty kick.  Holly insisted it was set up similarly to when the Harlem Globetrotters help a nine year old kid from the audience slam dunk a basketball, but I know it was my innate ability as a natural athlete, even if they did give me a second chance after I missed the ball on my initial kick.

Anyway, that's not the weird part.  After the game Holly needed to rejuvenate and retired to a quiet room to rest.  After obligingly accepting my congratulatory wishes, I entered this room to find her laying with her back to the door on a daybed with Gilles seated behind her, kissing the back of her neck.

Gilles was one of the celebrity players - French, suave, graceful, in possession of that rare ability to do everything effortlessly, with style and power.

I knew I had to act quickly to defend her honour and my manhood.  Holly regards me as her protector, so I knew I couldn't let that image be tarnished.

Any of you familiar with my blog knows I'm a bit of an athlete myself.  I've twice completed the 10 km portion of Halifax's Blue Nose Marathon and almost made it to the starting line of this year's Marathon By the Sea here in Saint John.  Of course, I also starred for the Armdale Executioners street hockey team.

Not wanting to end Gilles' soccer career, I decided to try to avoid giving him the physical thrashing he really deserved so, from my jacket pocket, I produced a sample size vial of Chanel Bleu.  You know what I mean, those little glass bottles that spray minuscule amounts of fragrance on you.  The bottles that look remarkedly similar to the vessels that contained precious stink-bomb fluid often used by unruly young boys.

As Holly whimpered lightly beneath his advances, clearly mistaking his soft lips for mine, I stealthily sneaked up behind him and pumped two squirts of the venomous liquid into his eyes.

He looked at me with the terror a coyote sees when bearing down upon a young rabbit and blinked a little.  The ingredients Chanel uses for their wares were apparently not as formidable as I had hoped.  Holly, confused by the commotion, turned to see Gilles' mildly irritated eyes, mistaking them for tears of sadness and then angrily assumed that I had done something to hurt his feelings and make him cry.

It was then that I awoke to voluminous feelings of anxiety and fear.  Holly is concerned that this is happening far too often and insists I look into counselling, but I told her I could handle it myself.

Peas and Carrots

My wooden Sherwood hockey stick stands guard behind our back door and, on occasion, I'll grab it and a tennis ball and head out to the driveway to fire a few shots at the workshop or the foundation.  I'm not certain of its age, but it's not new.  Do they still sell wood sticks?  In green felt marker, at the top of the shaft before the black, unraveling knob of tape, are block letters spelling the name T. Kerr.  Tim was my favourite player of the time, taking over from the man who sported the same number twelve with the Flyers before him, Gary Dornhoefer.

Most waking winter hours of my childhood were spent emulating the heroes of my youth playing street hockey.  Do kids play street hockey anymore?  I can honestly say I've yet to see it in my nearly two years in Saint John.

My fantasy hockey team name is a tribute to the "team" my friends and I formed - the Armdale Executioners.  I still have the old blue Duo-tang with our inked logo on the front containing the loose leaf that held our self-recorded stats.  Few of us had the money necessary to enroll us in organized hockey, so we gave ourselves a name and would play like-minded groups of kids from adjacent areas, most of whom were playing some level of "real" hockey.  This gave us the hunger needed to show that, even though our parents didn't chauffeur us to various rinks, we could play too.

My best friend, John, his brother Jeff and I were the main components of the team.  John and I often took on teams sporting lopsided numbers just to have the chance to play.  Sometimes we lost, but more often than not, we didn't.  I have the papers to prove it.

Akin to Forrest Gump-like peas and carrots, John and I had an uncanny ability to compliment each other.  Once a school year, our junior high gym teacher, Mr. Mackenzie, someone who avoided putting weapons into teenage boys' hands, would break out the plastic sticks and netted goals and break us up into floor hockey teams.

One year, for the first and only time, we were put on the same team.  Teams were then divided into three-minute shifts.  We were finally placed on the same shift for the final three minutes of the class and we made the most of that time.  Before Mr. Mackenzie's whistle, Webster, a classmate we often played against in our neighbourhood, told the opposing players to "watch out for John and Kevin."

Every time we took control of the ball, we scored.  I don't recall exactly what our total was, but it was legendary.  We knew this would only last three minutes and we played frenzied, focused hockey.  The other team didn't have a chance.  With time winding down, I set up behind the goal line to the left of the net.  One opposing player pressured me while the other two covered John, leaving our centre open in front of the goal.  I wristed the ball over their defence and watched it ricochet off Darren's stomach and into the net.

The next year Mr. Mackenzie did not put us together when floor hockey came up on his schedule.

That was more than thirty years ago.  Peas and carrots are a less-familiar dish these days too.

At Your Service

Valentine’s Day is fabulous; unless you’re single or married to Chris or Bobby Brown.  Being poor can take a little off the shine too.  But I’m not single and I really can’t consider myself poor, so I ventured out toward one of the local flower shops to pick up a little bit of admiration and awe for Holly.

This holiday outpouring of love and loose purse strings would have to be one of the best days of the year for those peddling fanciful weeds.  At least that’s what I thought.  While waiting on my flower choice to be packaged, a cashier commented to another customer, “Next year I’ll have to remember to stay retired.”  It was only eleven in the morning.

This is something I’ve encountered, and often noticed, around Saint John.  People are not happy.  Yes, it’s winter – everything’s practically dead and even the emissions from the Irving pulp mill bellow thick and heavy, taking longer to rise into our atmosphere – and twenty below, but it’s a day of love and hearts bursting with happiness.  And flowers are flying out of the shop doors while the coffers rise.

Still, I have rarely come across anyone happy to be working in this city.  I know it’s not my view because people are noticeably less unhappy in places such as Halifax and St. Andrews.  Especially St. Andrews – people almost appear to be drugged with some joy elixir visiting that town, but that’s another article.  One of the least ways to promote your business and lay the seeds for a repeat customer is to share your bleak outlook to someone happily handing over their hard-earned money – especially when their heart is so full of light and love, at least before you squashed it.

For background noise last night we put the television on House Hunters International and were introduced to a couple that sold their Hawaii condo to buy a large house in Fiji.  Holly and I looked at each other, knowingly thinking the same thing (which we do often), and commented a little incredulously that they felt the need to leave the horrible confines of the Aloha state for another tropical paradise while we focused on the mind-numbing freezer of our surroundings.

Is this what makes inhabitants here angry?  Halifax and St. Andrews are slightly warmer than Saint John.  I’m not sure if that’s the reason or not, but we’ve started pricing homes in the tropics, if only to give warmth to the imagination.

Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be

Not everyone takes advantage of their public library, especially in this electronic age of abundant reference, but I have always tried to make use of the free services offered by this institution.  Did I say "free?"  I did, and I like "free" very much.  Now, how does the library system in New Brunswick stack up with those I have used elsewhere?

The only real reference point I have to compare the New Brunswick Public Library Service to are the Halifax Public Libraries.  The first thing to note is that in New Brunswick the libraries are provincial (then broken into regions) while Halifax services only the municipality.  There are fourteen branches for Halifax compared to 70 branches in New Brunswick and ten in the Fundy region, where I reside.

The Saint John main branch is particularly gorgeous, at least from the outside beyond the semi-stocked shelves.  It is located inside Market Square, an upscale uptown mall that also houses the New Brunswick Museum.  There is an unusual penchant to place the libraries in shopping malls here.

Everyone knows about books at the library, right?  Anyway, today's libraries also sport music CDs, movies, computer/Internet time, and much more.  If a movie has been released to DVD, I was able to get it in Halifax.  If the library didn't have the latest CD by Tori Amos, I could request that they purchase it and I would be first on the list to enjoy it.  I often wondered how Blockbuster was able to stay in business when the Halifax library had 66 copies of The King's Speech in its system.  Oh, wait, they filed for bankruptcy protection.  Did I mention "free?"

The available material, or lack thereof, in my new home has been a big adjustment.  I think they may be adjusting to me too.  The librarian at my branch already seems to know my name, as all I have to do is appear at the counter and she goes to the shelf to see what's there for me.  That's not a bad thing, but I have to admit I preferred going to my spot under the T's amidst the many shelving units of requested material on hold in Halifax.

Then I was able to check myself out.  This option exists at the Saint John main branch, but not at mine.  Come to think of it, I've never actually seen anyone use the self-serve machine at the main branch.  Does anyone borrow things here?  It's "free."

Having a smaller, less developed entity doesn't go without some advantages.  I was deer-in-the-headlights surprised to learn that the due date for borrowed material - remember that grade school librarian that made school life miserable and wreaked havoc on your pristine relationship with your teacher if you forgot to get a book back on time? - is really just a suggestion.  You don't get fined when you're a little late.  I'm not lying.  I haven't had to nerve to test just how far this envelope can be pushed.

Today I returned three items.  Upon arriving home and sitting down to work I received a phone call - private caller.  It was my librarian informing me that the Lady Gaga "Born This Way" CD (oh, the shame) wasn't in its case and I should check my CD player, which was exactly where it was hiding.  This definitely beats being informed that you owe $40.25 in fines on top of the purchase price when this little stunt plays out in Halifax.

My next test of the system will be to make a suggestion for purchase.  They foolishly gave me the email address where this could be done.  Stay tuned.

Captains of Hospitality - Saint John and Transit

Reliable public transportation is essential for any city.  It is much more defining than many imagine.  Transit systems affect everyone.  When it operates smoothly it's something that's easily taken for granted, but when things are awry, it becomes a cat in an exotic bird sanctuary.

Saint John is a city that is reliant on buses, whether or not those inhabiting the many satellite communities that make up much of the blind affluence care to admit it.  The regular Saint John Transit buses are obvious, but there is also Acadian Lines, school buses, the trolley buses, the many tour buses, and those horrible Pepto-Bismol pink double deckers.  I know because they all assault our home regularly.

The first time I visited Saint John, just over a year ago to the day, I utilized the accommodations at University New Brunswick at Saint John and took the city bus to the convention I was attending each day.  Doing this allowed me to rid myself of my preconceived notions that Saint John was the same as Halifax, Montreal, Boston, Toronto and other North American cities with which I was familiar by allowing me to become intimately acquainted with areas outside of the uptown core, which has been transformed and dressed up like a six year old pageant girl for the tourists.

Of note are the plastic wrap-around bus stop signs that adorn some utility poles (if there is a piece left that hasn't been stripped by the harsh weather), the 'phantom stops' that sport no pole or apparent marker of any sort, the antiquated buses that make up the city's fleet, the high fares, the smell of depression, motley drivers flirting with younger female passengers, and the many unkempt riders that dominate the scene inside these vessels.

On one of my first 'dates' with my fiancee, Holly, we waited at an uptown bus stop one evening and she regaled me with stories of adventures on the bus warning me, to my mockery, that the drivers very often don't bother to stop.  As if on cue, the bus rounded the corner and left the two of us, along with another older gentleman, gawking in disbelief.  We hightailed it to King's Square where we found another bus waiting and Holly told the captain of the ship about our misadventure and ordered this driver to radio ahead to demand that the other driver wait for us at a transfer point.  I thought, "Right, as if this would ever happen," and lo and behold it did.  I'm convinced it was my intimidating stare while looking over her shoulder that made these events transpire.

To make things even more difficult for an already pedestrian-challenged city (expect much more on this subject!), many bus stops are located at intersections.  While speaking to Saint John Transit's Assistant General Manager on the telephone, who seems to be convinced their new GPS tracking system is the magic step in solving these problems, I was able to look out of my office window and convey my concern that the pole for the bus stop sign I was viewing shared said pole with a crosswalk sign and that both myself and Holly have had close calls with vehicles (including a City of Saint John pickup truck that had to actually steer into a snow bank while sliding to avoid colliding with her) attempting to pass buses stopped, often without buses using proper turn signal indicators.

Breath out.  Sigh.  Remain positive.


I'm actually trying to have hope for my adopted city, but I feel like Saint Johners have no desire to remove their blinders and tell officials to get their acts together.