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I hadn't seen this pair for a couple weeks, they seemed to have been replaced by robins, but this morning I noticed the missus as she coquetted shamelessly with the tiny window on our neighbour's garage, a behaviour she has become known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

It's a Good Friday

Like the limbs on the Irish, whose skin was never meant to touch the sun, the main road at the Irving Nature Park is now freckled as the white gives way to the earth below and I was enjoying the bright sun intermittently striking me as I ventured out for my first run of the year at this gem.  The park had plenty of other vermin both scurrying and sauntering across its body as other locals needed to be closer to this promise of warmth as winter finally succumbs to Spring's advances.

My day started at six with a nearly-full moon bright over the St. John River and a grey, frost covered landscape as I rose to take our beloved long-time customer and musically named canine for his morning romp.

Both occasions offered surprisingly few non-human creatures, only spotting another dog and the odd seagull in the morning and a mere crow near the half kilometer mark (working in reverse) of my noonday run.

The highlight of this Easter Friday came at the end of my run, as I walked the peninsula road to cool down.  Gaining on a senior couple walking their dog, the lady reached over, completely unaware of my presence, and grabbed the gentleman's ass.  They chuckled then looked behind whereupon I quickly averted any sort of acknowledgement of witnessing this lovely gesture.

I could not wait to get home to my Holly.

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.

Different Blades of Grass

The many different shades of green - where is your money being spent?

We hear about the importance of supporting local business everywhere, but do we follow through?  Some of us avoid the large box stores unless we don't have a choice.  Some sing the praises of their favourite shops to friends and family.  Some read about local bloggers' sponsored visits to local stores, some stops even hit twice!  Some have even attended Cash Mobs.

According to statistics presented by The 3/50 Project, $68 of every $100 spent at an independent business stays in a community compared to $43 spent in a chain store.  Naturally, when you make an online purchase at, say Amazon.ca, nothing is injected locally.

How does uptown Saint John fare when it comes to supporting local business?

Since Holly and I started Cash Mobs and, resulting from the positive energy we received from that endeavour, opened our own business, The New Artisan Studio, the following uptown businesses have closed their doors:

• Robin's BeadWorks (our first Cash Mobs destination)
• Rowena's Boutique
• Appleby's Image Centre
• Belly Beautiful Maternity and Baby (moved to Rothesay)
• Bejamin's Books (not uptown, but needed to mention since this was a Cash Mobs Destination too)

And we hear of more to come soon.

 On a positive note, there are shops opening too.  Exchange on Germain,Classy Lassy and Harrison House Gallery come to mind.

Saint John born Canadian Icon Stompin' Tom Connors died last night and as I listened to an interview on CBC Radio with Jian Ghomeshi from a couple years ago, lamenting the fact that I didn't know as much of this man as I should have, Tom was asked about the changes he's seen in Canada over his life and this uber-loyal patriot expressed his regret that it once meant something to him to be able to say he knew each blade of grass in this country, but now each town has lost its individuality as mega-outlets like Walmart set up their box store replicas.

How many reading have been to the newest Walmart on the west side?

Let's make our lawns unique - support local independent business.

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.

A Saint John Adventure

Saint John has been presented as a city of adventure and while this self-proclamation  may make it seem as though there hasn't been a whole lot of adventure since the 1800s, officials seem intent upon living up to this title.

As the snow falls outside the studio, anxiety builds as I recall the last snowfall accumulating something in the vicinity of 10 centimetres.  Lack of preparation combined with a seemingly slow response make travel by car, bus or foot an enterprise not for the faint of heart.

Over 39% of city sidewalks are not maintained during the winter months.  I am not certain why any of this is acceptable in an already pedestrian-challenged city.

The city has a discernibly infinite number of positives and the potential for the future is enormous, but pretending everything is wonderful maintaining the status quo does not help bring that potential future to fruition.

I want more for Saint John.  Do not mistake mentioning areas where improvement is possible as a lack of respect for doing so is a catapult for change - and change is good.  We need more catapults.

Stay safe, Saint John, and if you slip on the ice, get back up and keep to your path.