One of my Favourite Newfoundlandisms

Here is a new feature for the blog: "Favourite Newfoundlandisms"

Today's winner is:

"I am so hungry, I could eat the arse off a low flying duck"

What are some of your favourite Newfoundland quotes or popular sayings?

Seattle's Fremont Troll has escaped, Irritates Bloggers

The Fremont Troll has been lurking under the north end of the Aurora bridge in Seattle since 1990. But about a week ago the 18-ft. tall mammoth vanished into thin air. The missing Troll worries authorities because it has been off its medication for sometime now and police are afraid that the grey beast could hurt itself or someone else.


There have been numerous sitings but none have been confirmed. Analysts are now viewing security footage from a local Internet cafe where tipsters say they saw the Troll surfing the net and eating Paydays. Servers in the heart of Seattle's technology center are adding credibility to this claim as they have noticed a marked increase in Spam and Internet Troll attacks on Blogs, Forums and Chat rooms.

If you see this Troll, do not engage it. Without medication it has no control over its emotional centers. It is impervious to reasoning as it has the mental capacity of a toddler. Just proceed as though you do not see it, and contact authorities immediately.

Or you can do as I have, and record their IP address. Should the Troll come back to disturb me, I shall just have to send it something nasty.

Wedding Stories, and the Art of the Open Bar

I was a wedding this weekend, for a friend of mine and his girlfriend. There they are----> Ain't they purdy? This was a very important occasion, not just because it was a wedding, but because it was a wedding with a free bar! Ha! Just kidding. It was important to me because I happen to think a lot of Andre, and it was good to see him happy. It was also a momentous because my husband and I got to go out! Outside, together, sans baby, like normal people do! Wahoo! When you live away from home, getting a baby sitter is hard. I do have an Uncle here, but he and his wife have three young kids- so I don’t feel right about asking them to sit for me, but this occasion was too important to miss, so that is exactly what I did.

It was really good to sit with friends and have adult conversation. And it was wonderful to be able to have a drink or two. Ahhh yes. Nine months of pregnancy and 7 ½ months of breast feeding make for a very dry Nadine. So I had a glass of wine, then a Vodka and cran, then another glass of wine…I was having a laugh with friends I haven’t seen in awhile. Dancing and laughing with Don was a lot of fun too. And it is thirsty work let me tell ya! I found myself really enjoying the wine- until the flashback.

Yes. Yes. The Flashback. I had been to a wedding before where I was going through wine like this. And then beer. And then Vodka, and then Scotch. I don’t think that ended well. No, not well at all. Want to hear the story? Well, sit back and get yourself a drink.

********
The wedding was in 2003, in Kingston which is a little over 2 hours from here. It was for my husband’s childhood friend Mike, who was, as we say back home, a bit of a hard case. We drive out on the Friday after work. The traffic was heavy and it was raining cats, dogs and various rodents the whole way out. Nice start.

We get to the room at the hotel, a little smelly, very tiny, but it is somewhat clean. After checking in and unpacking, we head to the local bar where the wedding party was having a pre-weddin’ social. When we arrive I notice there are kids running around, babies everywhere, and a lot of people I don't know hitting the bottles pretty hard. Since I am driving, I must watch all this and not participate. I consider how the eight year old feels watching mommy getting soused, and wonder briefly about the affects of alcohol on mother's breast milk. Then I decide I don't care. How the kids got into the bar is beyond me. It was not a restaurant.

I was introduced to a number of the people at the wedding, and I am dismayed to discover that only three of the guests are Don's friends, I only know two of them. Even more distressing is that the rest of them are lawyers. Most of the night is spent listening to the group masturbating with stories from law school, or their legal firms (Now before the comment section is filled up with accusations that I am an antilawyerite, let me assure you, I love lawyers. Some of them are my best friends. I just hate the ones who are full of themselves). Thankfully Jeff Hogg and his wife Sherri were there, so I got to talk to someone while I watched husband get soused. He doesn't do that very often, so it was ok. Kind of funny to watch actually.

The next day we head over to Fort Henry for the wedding, and after 2 short hours of waiting to get across the causeway we arrive. I am thinking to myself that this might actually be nice- we will be near the water, and outdoors for a wedding…that would have been really cool. Except that is not where the ceremony is. Nope, we are doing that in a bunker at the top of Fort Henry. A small urine smelling bunker. It is dank, there are no windows, save the three missing bricks at the front of the bunker. But my, those white silk ribbons on the brick sure do look nice!

The woman in front of me must have marinated in her perfume and it was making me queasy. A wedding guest was late so the bride's family held the wedding up for them, while we waited like sheep in the bunker. I was getting a little claustrophobic; my eyes start to roll in my head, and I was tachycardic. The pianist squeezed into a piano at the front of the bunker played the same three songs over and over again. I started to see stars. The couple behind me rehashed the same stories I heard from the night before. How thoughtful.

Finally the wedding started, and the rest of it was pretty well engineered. We laughed and clapped in the right places. Pictures came after that, and Lord, if I have to start describing that whole set up, I will have to start drinking again.

I am honestly quite ill by that point so I went to the washroom: splashed cold water on my face and went outside for fresh air. I felt a little better when I was given an intriguing bit of information from the groom: Drinks were free until dinner. I figure, hell, I feel like crap now, maybe a drink or two will help. Somehow forgetting that this is now 6:00 pm, and I haven't eaten since 11:30.

Well I got a drink, and get a round for the people I can talk to (Don, Jeff and Sherrie) and sip. And sip. Around me, more stories from law school, and talk about how much money they made last year before taxes. Don is talking to Mike and Jeff, someone gestures to him and Jeff and asks who they are. The reply is "They didn't go to law school." so they moved on to the next topic. Someone was kind enough to get another round. And we all say thank you politely and gulp. Now there was no fraternizing with the law crowd. I was starting to think we scared them. I get another drink and asked myself "Am I scary?" This continued for sometime, and we learn that dinner will be delayed a bit. There are some other scripted items which must be completed first. I am not sure what they were right now, but I remember it had something to do with pictures, and Randy Travis. I drink.

Sometime later, and trust me, I don't remember, dinner is served. I think by this time I have set a record for how many times one person can curse between breaths. Most of what happens next is a blur. I remember feeling a little off. And concentrating on my turkey. I had a piece held up on my fork for a long time. You can meditate with turkey you know. It is quite calming. Suddenly I knew I had to move...and fast. Don says he looked at me at that point and feared for someone's life. I looked angry. I was not at that point. I had one goal. To get out. To get to the bathrooms.

Well fine friends. I did not make it to the bathroom. And the two gentlemen who were at the bar down the hall from the dinner room can attest to that. I almost made it out of the little bunker. But not quite. A sad mixture of white wine, red wine, some scotch and a morsel of turkey made a second projectile appearance in the doorway to the outside air. I don't remember the next few moments. I do know that Sherrie came outside with me and held my head up for about half an hour, trying to get me to eat. Not much success on that front. Don came out a few times to make fun of me and disappear. Finally he decides it is time to haul my sorry ass back to the hotel. The sorry spectacle was the highlight of the evening for the non-lawyers...and they left shortly after we did. Needless to say, I did not make it to the boat trip the next day.
********
So back to 2007 now, and with that Flashback oh so fresh in my mind I decided I'd had enough wine, vodka and amaretto, and chose water instead. My mamma didn’t raise no fool.

Newfoundland Toutons Recipe or Deep Fried Heaven

Warning: This is not low fat. This recipe will never have one of those Heart and Stroke foundation stickers on it. As a matter of fact, consult your doctor before making this recipe. Oh but if you can sample these delights, you will declare they are totally worth the potential myocardial infarct.

Now there are a number of different ways these babies are served. Some people eat them with the scrunchins, others without. Some people have them with butter, others serve them with molasses, and others with both. I like it with both, hey you may as well go whole hog here.

Ingredients
• 1 c 2% milk .
• 1 (16 g) packet traditional yeast .
• 2 tbsps shortening .
• 1 tbsp sugar .
• 1/2 c lukewarm water .
• 1/2 tbsp salt .
• 1/2 c cold water .
• 1 tsp sugar .
• 1/4 lb finely cubed bits of fatback pork .
• 5-6 c all-purpose flour

You will need a deep fryer with cooking oil for our family’s method. Though some people do it with oil in a frying pan or fry the toutons in the pork fat until golden on both sides. We do them in the deep fryer because it is safer and because the toutons come out lighter and less doughy.

Directions:

We begin by making bread dough. If you have your own recipe and already know how to bake bread you can go to the front of the class and skip to step 9.

1) Dissolve 1 tbsp sugar in the lukewarm water. Sprinkle top with the yeast let this stand 10 minutes, then stir briskly with a fork.
2) Scald the milk; add shortening, stir until melted.
3) Add cold water, salt and 1 tsp sugar.
4) Make sure that the milk mixture is lukewarm then add yeast. Stir until mixed.
5) Add 2 c flour and beat with a wooden spoon until smooth.
6) Gradually add more flour until you have a moist dough that no longer sticks to the bowl.
7) Turn dough onto a lightly floured board & knead for at least 10 minutes.
8) Shape into a ball and place this in a greased bowl, turning the ball to grease the top. Now my Grandma Browne used to make a sign of the cross over the dough with her wedding ring, as it had been blessed. You don’t have to do that part, but her bread always came out perfect. Cover the dough with a damp cloth and allow to rise in a warm spot until it has doubled in size. When it is almost ready, fire up your deep fryer.
9) And now for the fun part: punch down the dough a little (it might fart a bit but that is ok.- it is just air escaping). Then tear off pieces of dough (approximately 1/3 cup). We just pull it apart in sort of circular shapes, but some people who do them in the fry pan in pork fat pull them a little flat. It makes ‘em easier to cook in the fry pan I guess.

Now here is where the recipes diverge:

Scrunchins method:
10 a) While you are doing this recruit another foolhardy soul to make the scrunchins- which is fried pork fat. I can just feel my arteries clog now as I write that. Cut up the pork fat into teeny tiny pieces and then fry until scrunchins are golden brown & crisp. Now as I said before, some Newfoundlanders do not use the deep fryer like we do. At this point they remove the scrunchins and fry the toutons in the pork fat. I don’t like it this way- but you might. If you do try it this way you can put some scrunchins on the touton after it has cooked in the pork fat and begin to eat. I have seen people use this as a side for baked beans instead of serving buns.

Non Scrunchins method:
10 b) Once you have torn a few pieces of bread dough off, carefully drop them into the hot oil. Careful not to splash yourself. Have a box of salt standing by in case something bursts into flames; remember you can’t use water on fat fires. The dough will drop to the bottom of the fryer, and pop up and then bob in the fat, turning a beautiful golden brown on the bottom. Flip them over and let the tops cook, and haul those babies out. Drop them on a piece of paper towel to remove some of the excess fat. Snigger- like that willl really make a difference. Now put a few on your plate drizzle with molasses and a pat of real butter. Yes the real stuff, not the plastic yellow poo euphemistically known as margarine. Take a moment to worship your creation, and then pop that sucker right into your mouth….ah…that’s it. Yes like that….ohhhhhh.

Repeat until stuffed like a turducken… (What is a turducken you ask? Well that my friends is another heartstopper we shall explore in the near future).


Enjoy!

Newfoundland Art

I recently saw Rex Murphy interview Newfoundland artist David Blackwood, an artist whose prints and paintings haunt the imagination. I have always wanted to have a piece of his work, but as many of them start in the $5000 range, it ain't gonna happen. When I was about 14, I saw his print Fire Down on the Labrador at an Arts and Culture Center and I was mesmerized: I could barely pull my eyes away. Something about the piece just held me there, locked. My mom has one of his Mummer pieces, and when you walk into her living room your eyes are drawn to it and your body follows. It is amazing how he has the ability to pull you into his world and hold you there.

While I will never own a David Blackwood, I do have a couple of pieces of Newfoundland Art in my home. They comfort me, they bring me strength and give me a sense of place. I would love to have more, but there are more practical things we need to do around the house first.

I have one by Ken Power, called Silent Night. It is a winter scene off Signal Hill. I also have Lighthouse Point by Dave Hoddinott which is a beautiful night scene on the water. And finally, I have The Berry Picker, by Ed Roche that I love; which is unusual for me, because I often do not enjoy paintings with people in them for some reason. Who knows why, I am weird that way.

There has been a recent explosion in the amount of Newfoundland Art to be had out there at prices that allow the proud Newfoundlander (or other art lovers out there!) to attain it. I have used http://www.newfoundlandart.ca/ a number of times to purchase pieces, and they have been sent to me framed, and beautiful, and eager to take their place on my wall. So for those of you who live away and often find yourself homesick, check out the website, and think about buying a painting, print or poster. You will be supporting a talented crew back home, and you will do yourself a world of good.

Provincial Mariners' Memorial

Newfoundlanders have been tied to the sea for over 500 years. It isn’t just because so many made their living on the water, because often you will find Newfoundlanders during scarce leisure time by the sea, or a brook, river or pond with a line in the water. Or with a camper parked by a tranquil pond with a campfire and guitar nearby. The ebb and flow of the tides, of water, is inexorably linked to our people; to every inhaled and exhaled breath of a Newfoundland native. And while pull of the water sustains us in so many ways, it has also resulted in thousands of deaths. It seems that the ocean demands a price for all that is taken from her, and sometimes that price is paid in blood.



There is a price paid by those left behind as well: families left grieving and broken because their dads or other relatives were taken by an obdurate ocean. It is made more difficult when the ocean keeps her dead, for the families have little sense of closure.

A memorial was unveiled this week to pay tribute to all those lost at sea, and to offer some comfort, and recognition of the sacrifice made by those left behind. A life-sized bronze statue of a woman staring over a small pool of water was unveiled in Grand Bank, N.L., as the Provincial Mariners' Memorial I have yet to see this for myself but the image provided by the site reveals a moving structure- imbued with the dignity and grace demonstrated by so many Newfoundland families who have lost loved ones. I have included the image here, but I encourage you all to visit the official site to see how the work was done, and to learn about some of the shipwrecks recorded there.


I would really love to have some pictures. If anyone out there plans a visit, or lives near by please feel free to message me and let me know- I would appreciate it. It is a haunting memorial just in pictures, it must really be something up close.

A Cautionary Tale

Ok, I promise you that this is not going to become a Mommy Blog, but I have got to share this little story about Wil. Partly because I know writing is therapeutic and the exercise might help me feel better, cleaner, and partly as a warning to all those newbie moms out there. I feel a little like Lady Macbeth at the moment, except it is not blood I keep washing off my hands…

Living in Toronto these past weeks has been like living in someone’s armpit. The dank humid air smells skunky; it’s rank stale heated air that just hangs there; clinging, clogging every pore. It’s noon, and the sun has reached its zenith, a blazing eye burning in the sky, its mocking me. It sees the future.

I had just fed The Boy, and changed his diaper before putting him down for a nap. I decided not to put his shorts and tee back on because he really didn’t need it- he was too warm.

About two hours later he awakes…I can hear his soft little coos, he is babbling away in a language only other babies and stuffed animals understand. His electronic frog Baby Tad is in the crib with him and they seem to be playing nicely. Tad is singing “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands”. I love it when he wakes content, it makes me happy. All is right with the world. I figure I can leave him up there a bit, and finish up the kitchen. I have done this before, when he allows it, it helps me get stuff done. Heck he is safe up there in his crib. It is a few moments before I realize Tad is no longer singing, and Wil is not longer cooing. Come to think of it, it’s been quiet for awhile. Too quiet. I dry my hands and make my way upstairs.

Just as I turn up the last few stairs the smell hits me like a moose on the highway. I groan- this is going to be a helluva diaper change. Oh it was a tad more than a diaper change.

The first thing I noticed was how brown his hands were on the crib bars, and what is that on his leg…is that…? OHMYGOD that is! Oh, oh please no. I edge closer, my face in my hands, I am whimpering a little and my eyes are tearing from the smell. Baby Tad is dead, lying tits up in the crib, his lifeless keypad will never again light up and sing. He seems to have had the worst of it- I could no longer clearly make out his features. It was only his blue “On/Off” pad on his foot that identified him.

The crib sheet looks like Van Gogh’s Starry Night, except the medium was clearly not oil on canvas. The rungs were coated as well, his security blankie “MooCow” lay half in/half out of the crib. It looked like it was trying to escape- but never quite made it. I sympathized. I was pondering my own escape.

But The Boy is there, looking up at me, smiling with all of his three teeth, arms up in the air. He wanted up- but I wanted to run and hide. Damn where is a level four containment suit when you need it?

I picked him up, holding him at arms length, and carried him to the bath. I turned on the water and just let it run while I wiped, and cleaned, and wiped and cleaned, all the while muttering soft though not quite religious prayers. I did it over and over again until the water ran clear. But oh, oh I still had the rest of the mess to deal with. It was waiting for me. Waiting there in the bedroom, in the cruel, cruel heat of the summer.

There is a lesson here folks: They may be warm, and they may like to run free with just a diaper on, but I don’t recommend it. No, I don’t recommend it at all.

The Old Ways

Recently I blogged about the state of our current health care system, and the very next post pointed readers towards a cooking blog slathered in butter. If this is not clear evidence that I am an emotional eater, I am not sure what is. Anyhow, I found myself going through old cookbooks- trying to find something low fat, and somehow still tasty. I came up with nothing. Na da. Zip. Ziltch.

One of the books I often turn to for recipes is one that the Downhomer put out a few years ago. It is not your average cook book, nor is it one I recommend for beginner cooks. There are lots of recipes that are simply a listing of ingredients and one or two measly lines of directions. I guess you could just wing it if ya had to. In spite of that, the Downhomer cookbook is one of my favourites- not only does it have a lot of recipes from home, it has a bunch of Newfoundland Folklore tucked in between the recipe for Fisherman’s Brewis, and Toutons. There are poems and stories, jokes, silly illustrations, even a section on how to tie knots, and of course, old Folk Medicines. Some of them made me laugh, and some of them took me back in time…not literally geesh.


I remember as a kid in high school, I had an infected hangnail- don’t laugh, this really hurt. The tip of my writing finger was three times its normal size and glowed a bright, bright red: picture ET’s finger. This set me in a bit of a panic because Public Exams were days away, and the infected finger was on my writing hand. Schools these days would have let me off, or some one would have scribed the exam for me, however back then, it was tough noogies. I would be writing the exam unless my hand fell off. Never fear though, I had Grandma! She told me how to make a bread poultice and after 24 rather gross hours later the swelling had eased and white puss spewed forth. It still hurt to write, but I could deal with it.

Sometime the old ways are the better way to go. I took care of my infected finger without a trip to the Doctors office, without antibiotics, without pain medication. There was no harm done to the environment. It was simple. It worked. We need to start looking to a lot of what our ancestors did to survive and learn from them again.

I am not saying that you eschew the hernia operation and instead split a green witch hazel tree and pass through it. Or that you should forgo the tourniquet in favour of stuffing the wound with an application of cobwebs and turpentine of fir. Modern science has saved many lives, and improved the quality of life for many more. However, it seems to me that the price paid for the progress the modern world offers is our sense of balance. And I am not sure how to get it back.

So you say you can't cook?

Well now folks, (let's face it people, we are mainly addressing the males of the species) here is a blog for you: Pioneer Woman Cooks

This woman has a variety of meals as long as you want great flavour and nothing remotely close to low fat. I mean, there is probably three recipes on there that don't require butter. She has great wit too, you can't help but smile as you read her blog. Essentially she goes through each recipe, step by step, with photos of each part of the recipe, and tips on how to make it turn out just right. From the assembled ingredients, to the finished product, it is all laid out clearly for you. The instructions and visual aids are so clear that you would have to be either allergic to kitchen utensils, or have attained my husband's level of culinary ineptitude to screw it up.

So next time you have that hot date, or maybe the in-laws are coming over and you want to impress, check out her website. She will get you through it....a few pounds heavier then you were when you started, but hey, nothing is perfect.

Healthcare: How much care is there?

I had some tests done recently, blood work and such; when the results came back I was told I needed to see a specialist. I was sent on my way, with a promise that my doctor’s office would call me with an appointment time. Which they did yesterday and the conversation went something like this:

“Ms. Browne we have an appointment for you, have you got a pen?”
“Yes, shoot.”
"You See Dr. LongnameIcan’tpronounce on March 9th, at 2:15”
‘I’m sorry did you say March 9th?” I asked a little shrilly.
“Opps, sorry, it is March 13th”

I almost asked her: "Of what year?", but I held my tongue. When I hung up the phone my emotions were swinging from total shock to a festering anger- with a little fear in the mix just to make it more interesting. Whatever is wrong with you, I told myself in calming tones, it can’t be serious- you would be in before next year if it were serious. Right?

All the emotions and worry I was feeling dialed up several degrees when the phone rang again later that evening. My Aunt C. had a cyst removed a week ago today. It made its presence known rather suddenly, and due to its size it needed to come out quickly and be tested. I was home then at the time, and I visited her in the hospital, she was tired and uncomfortable, but she was hanging in there. When I got back to Ontario I called to see how she was doing, she was still nauseated and really warm, but she felt she was doing better. It turns out she wasn’t.

They “nicked the bowel” when they removed the cyst. She is in hospital now, for more testing and surgery. And I can tell you folks, my anger now is a wild animal gnawing away at my insides.

I understand that Doctors are not gods I understand that they can make mistakes. As much as I want to strangle her doctor with his own stethoscope I know human error is rarely the whole story. This is endemic of a long chain of system failures. I can blame the doctor all I want but that won’t help my Aunt, nor will it prevent others form suffering the same way. I know that many doctors in Canada, especially rural Canada, are overworked. They are tired and that makes them prone to making more mistakes. But while I can see how mistakes can happen, it does not excuse it. We need to take a serious look at health care: the whole of it.

I don’t want to see us go the way of the US, with HMOs running the show. Their system only works for those who can afford it. However, what we have here isn’t working well either. This is not a problem that will be solved by throwing more money at it; this is something that can’t be fixed just with cash.

Why are we allowing so many Doctors to graduate and head south? Is there really nothing we can come up with to entice them to stay? Why are we using marks the main prerequisite for getting into medical school? Don’t we know that there is more to taking care of someone than just memorizing symptoms? What happened to quality control within a hospital? How do you open someone up and remove the ovary instead of the cyst? How do you sew someone up without checking for things like a nicked bowel, or sponges left in the abdomen?

I don’t have the answers, I just have a lot of questions. And a million worries.

Harry Potter! I have got it, but can I read it in time?

I have got it! The latest Harry Potter Installment! I have been avoiding the news, internet sites, and conversations that might ruin this final foray into the world of Hogworts, Muggles, enchantments and spells. If I didn’t have a little boy to take care of I would insert a catheter, hook myself up to an IV and lock myself in my room to read. However I do have a little guy, one who is sharking around my legs as I write this (it is bottle time).

Instead, I will read it in installments, minutes stolen during naptime, between loads of laundry and supper preparations. Anyone want a baby for a few days? Ok, 24 hours, that is all I would need. Anyone?

Weddings and Funerals

Weddings and Funerals. The two biggies. All too often these two signposts mark a time in my life when I hop on a plane to be with family. This time it was my Grammy’s funeral and as much as I love being here, it has been difficult. It hurts me to say goodbye, but it hurts more to watch my grandfather try to mend his broken heart. She was the matriarch who kept the family grounded, the sun around which we all revolved, the love of my Granddad’s life. But Grandma was in a lot of pain, and I would not have her back to see her suffer again. Not just so she could ease our pain.

I thought I was done blogging about this, I logged in with another topic pretty well flushed out, but I couldn’t stick with it. This is the direction that I still seem to be pulled in. I was looking at our itinerary for our return trip back to TO when it occurred to me that another visit is drawing to a close, and that I won’t be back for another year. Unless there is another funeral and I fear that is possible. Granddad seems so lost.

It would be nice to be here “just for a visit” but it is so damn expensive to fly here. Cripes, it is cheaper to fly to the UK than to fly to Newfoundland. That burns me. We should be able to fly within our own country more cheaply than to travel out of it. I remember one Christmas my husband and I tried to book flights home- it was going to cost us $2500! Man, I couldn’t sell a kidney for that price. So no, the odd flick home just for a visit is as rare as an honest car salesman. No, most often we are going to a funeral or a wedding.

Thankfully, there are some weddings on the horizon- and I know they are important to my Granddad. He is looking forward to them; he is keeping on for them. My cousin Stephanie is getting married August in PEI. Stephanie with her beautiful curly brown hair, I used to covet those soft ringlets as a child. Little Stephanie I remember as a pretty little thing, is now a beautiful young woman. We were talking at the funeral about how we spent hours making tissue paper flowers for Aunt Catherine’s wedding.

And Kimmie! Another stunningly beautiful cousin (Ahem, it seems everyone in my family is blessed with good looks, I am not sure how that particular gene sequence skipped me but it did) She is doing the deed in October. She is in the final stages of planning now and when we spoke last week her eyes were bright with excitement. Kim’s sister Nicole is expecting a baby in the fall and I know Granddad will want to see the little one. When I visit with Granddad now I always work these events into our conversation and I can see him brighten, come alive again. And when he holds his great grandson Wilson, his smile and laugh illuminates all, and suddenly that dull ache seems to ease a little.

Life finds a way of keeping you going, even when you just don’t seem to have it in you. We do have to say goodbye, and it does hurt. But we also get to say: “Congratulations to the Bride and Groom!” and “Welcome little one!”

Yes, life finds a way and for that I am grateful. Good Luck Stephanie, Kim, and Nicole. Love you all.

Good-Bye Grammy

In my Grandma’s House


In my Grandma’s house
is a book bound in black
paper clippings live between yellowed pages
an outline of lives lived; marriages made
babies born and passings.

In my Grandma’s house
pictures of children now grown
visual chronicle of decades past
a timeline of connections; families made
grandchildren born and loved.

In my Grandma’s house
the smell of baking bread
jam-jams, pancakes and baked beans.
A line of stitches and sweaters made
knitted mitts and warmth.

In my Grandma’s house
a window opens to the apple tree
while fragrant blossoms scent the breeze
the skyline of Birch reach upward, prayers made;
taken by the wind and answered.

In my Grandma’s house
a book bound in black
paper clippings lie between aging pages
outlines lives she loved, memories made
and now it marks her passing.





Clara Margaret Browne March 10th 1929- July 9th 2007

I love you Grammy

Crowds line highway for fallen soldiers

You know, just when I think this province has nothing redeeming about it, something happens and I find myself stepping back and re-evaluating things, and perhaps cutting the Big Smoke a little slack.

Yesterday, overpasses along Hwy. 401 were again lined with a sea of red and white as hundreds of people gathered to honour the six soldiers killed in Afghanistan last week. They held Canadian Flags aloft, and draped them over the side of the overpass; they saluted, clapped and cheered the six hearses as they broke into view; a moving ribbon of black on the horizon.

This group of individuals was composed of Toronto paramedics, police, parents of soldiers overseas, and dozens of average citizens who thought it was important to take time out to thank and honour those who served their community abroad with their sacrifice.

To date, 66 Canadians and one diplomat have been killed in Afghanistan since 2002. Each time they come back, Canadians see the same sad rituals of the repatriation ceremony: stoic presence of politicians, the soldiers carrying caskets and trying to keep their emotions in check, family members who cling to each other as they watch each coffin unloaded and brought to the hearse, the salutes, and the tears. The lament for the young, brave, men and women whose lives were extinguished under stars they do not recognize.

At least we see it, and remember the cost of this mission. In the US, the government prohibits photographs of the coffins of U.S. troops returning home. They have the cost of the war in Afghanistan and Iraq counted down to the cent, but the human cost is taboo. While many Americans are appalled by this policy, it seems that coverage of Paris Hilton’s time in jail gets more media attention.

I have a friend from Newfoundland, Jeff Hogg, who has been to Afghanistan. He is among the lucky ones who have returned. Scarred, forever changed, but alive. He and his wife both know if the mission continues they will be sent back. It makes me ill to think that one day I could be joining those people on the overpass, saying goodbye to a childhood friend, but I am grateful too. Grateful that we have such selfless people in this country, people who continually serve, people who leave their lives; their loves to keep us out of harms way. I am grateful that I live in a province that can take time out of their busy lives to give a moment of thanks for their sacrifice. Grateful that I live in a nation that does not shirk away from the most devastating cost of war: the horrible price paid for peace and security.

A Castle in the Heart of the City.

As much as I hate Toronto, it is one of the larger outposts of Newfoundland’s Empire and deserves some respect. When we first moved to Ontario we lived in SkyPro apartments on the corner of Bloor and Jarivs. That was a bit of an experience. It is just a little ways up from Cabbage Town which is actually a really pretty spot, however, in the area between there and SkyPro things got a little dicey. At night the “gangstas” from Sherborne St., the hookers, the trannies, the homeless, and the homeless trannies all came out to play (they mostly come out at night…mostly). And the noise! The incessant thrum of traffic as millions of cars made their way to the DVP, the constant barrage of sirens, the yelling, the screech of tires, the thunder of crashes, the pulse and hum of a mass of humanity below.

I was on the phone home quite a bit in those days. My own digital umbilical cord. I remember a day when it was uncharacteristically quiet; things seemed sort of still. It made me think of home and so I called mom. We had been talking only for a few minutes when she and asked: “Where are you?” “I am at the apartment” I replied. To which she answered. "How come I don’t hear any sirens?”

Ah TO! The Big Smoke. It is a great place to visit, but I don’t want to live there. We started looking to move out of the city, and eventually we found a spot we could afford (barely) in Durham. And this is where we now live. However some of our closest friends still live in the city, and we visit them when we can.

Last weekend Julie and Karl invited us to go to a Renaissance Fair held at Casa Loma. Julie and Karl married there a few years ago (it was a magical wedding by the way, she was a beautiful bride, and the groom wasn’t half bad either).

We took the subway to Dupont and made our way up the sidewalk. You can see the edge of the gardens surrounding the castle as you approach, a long stone stairwell spirals its way up the grounds beckoning you in. We went around the long way because we had the little monster with us, and we did not want to hork him all the way up there in his carriage.

It is an impressive thing to see this Castle emerge out of the grey and bleak of a busy city. It is odd too, to step off a subway, walk off a busy street and step back in time. That sense of time out of place was enhanced by the Renaissance Fair. Lords and Ladies strolled in the gardens. There was Merlin’s Ale (yum!) and Raspberry Mead (gah!) to drink. A falconer showed off his bird…er his falcon. There were shows to catch (I recommend “Men in Tights”), codpieces to stare at and wares to buy. In addition to that you could explore the massive Casa Loma, and its beautiful gardens. The castle is a jewel in the middle of the city.

An expensive jewel at that. Sir Henry Mill Pellatt bankrupted himself creating this marvel and it is the Kiwanis who take care of it now. If you ever find yourself in the Big City check out Casa Loma, they have a variety of events during the year, and movies are filmed (Parts of X-men and Chicago were shot there), heck you can be married at the Castle if you want! But whatever you decide don’t drink the Raspberry Mead! My taste buds haven’t grown back yet, but the hole in my cheek is filling in nicely.



*Thanks Julie for the pictures!