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.

Shining Star

There are a number of singers that you know you should see, but for whatever reason, don't know if you will ever receive the opportunity.  Bif Naked falls into the category for me.

Her popularity soared in the late '90s, yet somehow escaped me until a number of years later and then I found out about her being diagnosed with breast cancer and, as with all her fans, was scared.  Respectfully selfish, I subconsciously accepted the fact that I may not ever get to see her in concert.

Imagine my elation when I happened to check the website for Saint John's Imperial Theatre's upcoming events and saw that Bif was scheduled to come here!  Without any hesitation I bought tickets - third row centre (because Holly doesn't like the front row!) - and anxiously awaited concert day.

Bif Naked Supporting Saint John Animal Rescue

Her often brutally honest lyrics give insight to her personality and beliefs, but given that this show was to be acoustic, I did not know what to expect from the concert.  I didn't care.  What I did know was that someone overflowing with talent could not give a bad performance.  Her songs are normally hard and even angry sounding, which sets you up for the surprise of your life when you see her in person and discover there really is nothing hard or angry present.  Everything about her shines.  Bif's vulnerability is unsettling because you just don't expect it.

The stage consisted of two stools; one for Bif and one for Jacen Ekstrom, each with their chosen instruments - her voice and his guitar - and a small table beside Jacen.  Their chemistry is easy and fluid and a fine match.  That aforementioned vulnerability works with this onstage relationship to deliver Jacen as a sort of broken-family son to Bif - her protector even if she is calling the shots.  And it works.

I was awed by the quality and strength of her voice.   Knowing the acoustic aspect would highlight any weaknesses and having only really heard her behind the usually heavy, loud music on her albums, my preconceptions had me mistakenly believing this style would take something away from a 'normal' concert, but this was definitely not the case.  The focal point became her vocalizations and spotlighted the intended intimacy, allowing the concert goer to appreciate that this performer was showing us her therapy - ridding herself of her demons and, in the process, empowering herself right before our eyes - and instructing us to do the same.

Strutting

Saint John shone and shimmered during its Saint Strut event to support the Saint John Regional Hospital's pediatric department, as five hundred gathered at the Delta Brunswick to celebrate fashion, film and architecture and I, in full support of my lovely Holly, played the fly on the wall while she toiled.

Being alone at a public event presents on opportunity for many things and I could have made myself extremely useful, networking our studio or making new connections, but it served more as a time for observation, rejuvenation and absorption - both of the atmosphere and, after paying the $40 ticket price, the complimentary glass of wine.

Vessel in hand, I drank in the many wonderful donations for the silent auction, noticing a couple familiar names on the bid sheet showing their "Kilroy was here," bidding early for recognition.  I bumped the price on the bottle of Chanel No. 5 a whopping fifty cents.

This wasn't the only area in this upscale event where those trying to look as though they fit in stood out from those that actually did.  All seemed to sport fine attire, but most did so effortlessly while those who pushed their club-wear to another level stood out in a way they were likely hoping they wouldn't.  Mel, I'm not necessarily talking about that hideous shirt - I don't think anyone would actually wear that to a club.

I settled into my chosen seat, as the majority of the crowd was doing, and took notice of one exotic couple that was working the room like peacocks, not really making contact with others, but making certain everyone saw that they were present.  She, younger than he, led the way, as their fingers formed a possessive bond that sent a message to the room - this one's mine - as though it was only this contact that held the relationship together.  Both were tall and attractive, she wearing a tight, stylish dress that ended just past her bottom, and he looking like an older Mike Bossy - distinguished yet athletic and powerful.

At the intermission I spotted the opportunity to check in with Holly (and claim possession of her wine glass) then, after resigning myself in error that dessert consisted only of cheese, grapes and crackers, found the holy grail of delectable sweets and was brought right back to elementary school class parties when my best friend and I would gorge ourselves so quickly and egregiously that we would spend most of the time in the hallway nursing our ridiculously upset digestive tracks.

My hat goes off to the organizers and participants who all had a hand in delivering a unique evening of fashion, film, architecture and fundraising.

Art has Power

Many emerged from their homes, eyes not used to that foreign orb in the sky, to an October Saint-John-summer-like-day making them amiable and thirsty for anything outside of the confines of their residences.  That meant many strolling the uptown sidewalks, alert for anything that fills more than their survival need, opening the space in their minds to the satisfaction the arts can provide.

Whether or not they realize art is a need, though not necessarily primal or immediate, they become more willing to entertain the thought of spending good currency that has accumulated in their bank accounts.  That's when they will enter such a radical place as an art gallery.

Early afternoon saw two young girls enter cautiously, skillfully scanning for the dangers new territory can provide, sporting backpacks and soft vinyl lunch boxes.

"Hello."

A smile lit the first girl's face and her posture became noticeably relaxed, "Hi."  They began to take in the treasures around them.

"Oooh," followed by some murmurs as the girl pointed to something on a shelf so her also-Asian friend would take notice.

They moved on past the boutique to the gallery section, drinking in the paintings.

Coming full-circle, the girl stopped at the cash to inquire about the item that first caught her attention.

"Is Meaghan Smith CD for sale or part of the display?" she asked quietly, in good, but somewhat broken English.

"It is for display.  If you really want it, I could probably sell it to you and order another from Amazon though, that's where I purchased that one."

"Oh.  Yes, please.  I tried to get it at HMV, but they said they don't carry any of Meaghan Smith's anymore.  They told me I would have to buy it from Amazon, but I don't have a credit card.  I could pay with debit?"

"The miniature paintings with the CD are also by Meaghan Smith.  Do you follow her on Facebook?"

"Yes, they are so cute.  She very talented."

"Is $15 for the CD okay?"  I couldn't remember how much I paid, but thought that should cover it... I ended up being off by 75 cents... I'm not going to make money this way!

 "Yes.  Thank you very much."

She left the store atwitter, like something you'd see in a '50's teen movie, with her friend, only having to return a couple hours later to retrieve the lunch bag she left behind.

"Oh, sorry," as I passed her the square case, "I was too excited," she explained apologetically.

In between her visit I was pleased to welcome a lovely lady we lease a parking space from to our studio.  Being the beginning of the month, she was nice enough to offer to come by for her money so she would be able to see this new entity.

As I offered information about our artists and artisans, we were both able to share some personal details and thoughts about our lives and the places and people that inhabit them.

"I like this a lot," as she paused at one painting.

"He's from Fredericton.  I like his work very much and that is one of my favourites."

Fingers to lip, as she took a slow step back to absorb the piece.  "Yes.  That is nice."

She turned and continued to take in the rest of the works as I tutored about the artists.

"I don't like that stuff," pointing.  "That sort of stuff doesn't appeal to me."

"No, art has to speak to you and they all have different conversation styles."

We were back at the front and I took out my wallet to pay for October's parking."

Almost surprised, she said, "I'd like to place that as a deposit on that painting I like."

Art has that power, that ability to touch you when you're not expecting it, but are mentally open to the possibilities.

The Young and the Restless

This city breaks my heart.  Even with all its natural beauty and past splendor it is having a horror of a time trying to keep up with the rest of the world.  I have stated before how happy garbage day makes me, although it may simply be the notion or ritual involved with purging your home of its waste, but a troubling thought has recently entered my head:  what if the city's attempt at a recycling program is merely a way to reduce the waste management budget?

Think about it.  Instead of picking up our recycling like other cities, they have us cart it to easy-to-manage depots, essentially eliminating a large portion of our household trash from the garbage routes.  I have seen days where the garbage truck pulls up and the driver has to get out and put the trash into the back, then return to the driver's seat and pull up to the next house.  There is nothing efficient or safe about this, although it does seem to keep the employees from loud tirades of profanity.  Nevertheless, we can now add sanitation engineers to our resume.

Saint John is not a city where you can expect to have any measurable quality of life without owning a car, so try thinking about carting waste on the bus or by foot.

Then I started wondering what kind of market there is for the materials we are recycling which led my brain its next illuminating realisation:  maybe this stuff isn't even being recycled; perhaps it just ends up as trash anyway.

I thought about contacting Anderson Cooper or, at least, Rick Mercer, but it dawned on me that by simply putting the words in print I'll soon get an answer:  if there's truth to this, I won't hear anything; but if it's not true, the city will bring suit.

Mel Norton, the strapping young hero that felled the mighty and terrible Ivan, has Saint John swooning and basking in his eminence.  The men all want to be him and the ladies want to be with him.  I'm pretty certain I was woken from my slumber the other night by Holly tossing and passionately calling out his name, although she wants me to believe she was telling me to "move over."  The simple truth, for me, is that I have a difficult time putting my faith in a mayor who seems content with the past administration's decision to address animal management concerns by removing cats from the bylaws.

Please, young Mel, see the opportunity you have to lead this city toward a semblance of its former glory.

Cats and Dogs

In Saint John, as well as all of New Brunswick, we are reaching the eve of the municipal elections and, as dull as that may sound, it is the talk of the city.  The council presently in court is attempting to offer for re-election with upstanding decisions such as removing cats from the city by-laws and animal control services, as announced by the Animal Rescue League, and, well, let's just say 'pension fiasco' and leave it at that.  (I bring up that last item because nobody can fathom the idiocy and because I'm hoping I'm not going to be sued for stating my opinion.)

One thing is painfully clear, the reign of Ivan (The Terrible) Court has to come to an end, but I'm not going to harp on this subject because telling people not to vote for the fat man would be like telling them the sky beyond the Saint John fog is blue.

Returning to the animal control problem, it concerns me that the current council has missed the painfully obvious solution and hope the newly elected (come Monday) will implement the path to economic independence for this city.  I can see collective heads nodding in approval as everyone reads this.  There is a bountiful free range, pesticide and drug free (they drink from puddles, not Saint John water - damn, is that another law suit?!) food source just ripe for the plucking in our literal back yard: those stray cats and dogs.

Every problem is an opportunity, so instead of looking upon the situation as a financial burden, these frisky critters can be collected, processed and sold locally, heck, globally.  I am a vegetarian, but if I chose to eat meat, I see no rational reason why these felines and fidos can't be the perfect source of protein and cholesterol for city dwellers.

Think of the publicity.  Saint John, stop trying to tout your dulse (who the hell actually eats that?) and peddle poodles.  Kitty can keep your family plump and happy.  Animal groups in Toronto estimate anywhere from 100,000 to 250,000 stray cats in their city, so a little entrepreneurial ingenuity could see huge profits as four legged friends are trucked into Saint John like wood chips heading to the mill.  I wouldn't recommend using this seemingly unending supply of meat for pet food though, that would just be wrong.

So, if the candidates for Monday's election don't have their heads in the game, feel free to pass the word on to Matthew Thompson; notify Joseph Allan Callahan; and, for goodness' sake, tell Mel!

Sunday Outing

Holly and I needed to visit the local emergency room for a follow up doctor's appointment.  In New Brunswick, where you will need more than a four leaf clover and a lucky horse shoe to find a family physician, this is typical, but the norm seems to be to hope your medical problems go away or metastasize into something extremely nasty that will get you seen by a doctor, albeit too late.  At least I believe that is the province's plan for reducing the ballooning cost of health care.

During our three hour spring Sunday afternoon wait at St. Joe's - that is the affectionate moniker St. Joseph's Hospital is known by in Saint John - we were privileged to observe some of the local characters sharing this same adventure.

Laura is a nine year old who came in with her mother and two older sisters for, what seemed to be, a typical outing.  Nobody seemed particularly perturbed about having to visit a hospital as the mother acknowledged the security guard by name and guided her family to the number dispenser like some African plains' creature, where she made certain each had their own.  Mom, as Laura liked to yell in repeated staccato bursts until being told to pipe down, had achieved her three hundred pounds for the prized flowered moo moo that adorned her pale white figure years ago and was using this formidable presence combined with her stiff, angry voice to assert her dominance just as she had undoubtedly had to do through her childhood to obtain the necessary food and attention while learning to use the power of an unattractive body over potential predators.

Little Laura, with her thin frame to match her thin, somewhat greasy straight dark brown hair, would light up when receiving the attention she sought from her mother in the form of a verbal assault and make her way toward her sisters with pride on her face and her fingers and thumb forming the shape of the letter L, adding "Loser," under her breath as she neared earshot of the one entity that represented both older siblings.  Laura could easily be mistaken for a boy were it not for the puffy sleeves adorning her blouse.

Her sisters had gravitated toward a pair of girls they knew from school that were looking very important with the texts that were constantly leaving and entering their cell phones.  These two, who could have been anywhere from 13 to 16 years old, were both thin and sporting clothing designed to highlight this and complement the over-applied makeup.

To our right had sat an older overweight (though not quite obese) man breathing and, sometimes, coughing loudly through a tracheal stoma and his lady, who resembled an older and even more weathered version of Laura's mom.  They had entered the triage room just before Laura's group had entered.  Upon returning to the emergency waiting room, they were greeted by Mom yelling with her normal voice as she ambled toward the couple, "Dad!  What the hell are you doin' here?"

"He took a walk in the woods and fell."

Mom maneuvered her ample frame into the couple's personal space, never lowering the volume of her voice.  "Alone?" she blurted, turning her head accusingly to the woman, then looked over her shoulder, "Look Laura, it's Grandpa."

This went on for some time while the nurse behind the glass completed Grandpa's registration and the herd moved the show to the seats in the centre of the room, providing a much more entertaining and apt spectacle than the Nascar that someone - someone who had undoubtedly left the ER long ago - had tuned the television channel to.  Laura's mother's cell phone then announced an incoming call with loud country music and she held the phone to her face to read the ID before flipping it open and answering it, "Whaddya want, Mom?"

Grandpa's seats were taken by a young man and two young women, all looking far more tattered than their years should suggest, who had just said nonchalant hellos upon recognizing each other.

"What are you here for?" he asked the one with longish dark hair and dark featured face.

She had an abscessed tooth, it turns out, but returned the inquiry and was told that he needed some money Saturday night, so signed himself up for the local mixed martial arts fights, even though he wasn't expecting a victory.  Now, it was time to get the souvenirs from his match looked after and the conversation flowed like Crosby's molasses until we heard them mention another girl they knew.

"She would lick a guy's feet for a thousand bucks," said the dark featured woman.  Noticing the negative reaction this drew on the faces of her listeners, she added, "What?!  Money's money.  I'd do more than that for a thousand."

It was somewhere around this point, well over two hours in, that Holly and I moved to the second, smaller empty waiting room where we put the television on HGTV and hoped we wouldn't miss our names for our chance to see the doctor this go 'round.