Cobb, Clemente, Rose, and... this blog

Hey, everyone.   

Hit a kinda cool milestone the other day, with this thing.

It received it's 3000th hit.

See, that's why I listed Cobb, Clemente and Rose in the post title.

It's a baseball reference. 3000 hits... big milestone for ball players...

never mind.

I started this, 4.5 years ago, just.. because.   Because it was suggested by someone who made it sound like fun.   Because I'm lazy about writing unless I impose deadlines / assignments for myself.

Because... I could.

And I was fairly sure it would just sit out there on "the internets" without anyone reading it.   

And it sorta did, for awhile. 

And then y'all started checking it out a bit, and a bit more....

Anyhow  - Thanks everyone.  Thanks to those who read it, follow it, occasionally comment on it.

Hope that you continue to get something out of the transaction, moving forward.  

Thoughts at Christmas 2012

Seems, in reviewing past history here, that I’m in need of at least one “Christmas-related” entry, to keep the multi-year streak alive.   

Thoughts at Christmas, 2012.

We’re not sure our daughter believes in Santa.
She's only five years old.

I remember lying awake in a bedroom I shared with my brother in the farmhouse my family was renting at the time, when I was five.   It was Christmas eve, and at one point in the night, we SWORE we heard sleigh bells.    

But like with most kids, by the time the folks made it official, we were ready to accept it as gospel.  The logistics of the operation simply made it too much to accept.

Back to my daughter:   She doesn’t get excited about Santa, doesn’t ask a lot of questions about him. 

“Do you want to watch this Christmas cartoon?”
 “No thanks, how about a Wild Kratts?”

Maybe this has as much to do with the fact that Rankin Bass made really… bad cartoons, as it is an issue of Santa belief.   

(See old post, highlighting top 5 holiday tv shows.  No I’m serious. Go find it, read it, and come back.  Now!  I’m going to count to five…)

 I’m quite sure that if there is doubt, the fact that she’s seen him in 4 different places in the last 10 days, and he tends to look quite different each time, doesn’t help.

“If he’s Santa, and is getting ready for Christmas, why is he posing for photos in my gym?” she may be thinking to herself.   And at the zoo, and in a parking lot at the village community center, and at a freakin’ pancake breakfast….

And likely at another pancake breakfast, this coming weekend.   (Yay pancakes!)

He’s freakin’ everywhere.   

Can’t believe we  actually stood in line and spent money to get pictures taken with him at the mall, in 2010. 

 

But if she isn’t buying it, she’s not saying so, and how do you broach the subject with your child?          

So, hon – you believe in Santa or what?
Of course I do, daddy.  Why do you ask?

Oh… uh… no reason.  Have a cookie.

Which leads to a serious issue:  If you’re not active in a church, and Santa’s not a big deal, what do you do to instill a sense of wonder and magic in your five year old, for Christmas? 

This has been weighing heavily on me the last couple of weeks, as I don’t want it to be simply about receiving presents.   

And at what age can you hope to get her to understand  why it’s better to give than to receive; why the story of Scrooge is so meaningful?

Confession: I struggle with getting excited about Christmas, every year.  

You dedicate so much time and effort into the gearing up for it, preparing for it, shopping, decorating..What are we gonna cook on Christmas eve, what are we gonna cook for our dinner on Christmas day; did we make sure that all the kids on the list got equal treatment; can we finally remove ____ from our extended gifting list, as we didn’t get anything from them last year… blah blah blah…..  

   

Jesus.    

And while I write this, I know we behave this way  because we DO care about each other; we do love the kids on our list, we DO want to instill a sense of importance and relevancy to the day…

 And I approach Christmas for myself with no expectations, yet still manage to frequently feel a sense of disappointment,  which is stupid, and all on me, and I know it, but… there it is.      

And I really don’t want my daughter, who’s already happy and full of imagination and wonder and whimsy, to grow up feeling the same way.  

Not on my watch, anyhow.  

Confessions of a dad. #1

Confessions of a Dad.  #1

So, last night, I went in the tank, when playing “Sorry!” with my daughter.

I threw it. 

She needed one specific card to win, and the deck needed shuffling anyhow…

I saw the card, and made sure that she’d get it, on her 2^nd turn. 

This was no professional grade slight of hand. Those who’ve played euchre with me over the last 35 years know that I actually suck at stacking decks, and therefore simply never bother to try.    

She’s five, you see.  And was far too busy playing with her game pieces and talking to her mom to pay any attention to what I was doing….

Ok darlin’, it’s your turn… Hey!  It’s the card you need!  You won!  Great job sweety!.   Not bad for your first try at the game.

Now go brush your teeth and put on your pajamas.

I love you, but it was getting really late, and you WERE ahead,  so probably would have won eventually, and we all had lots of fun….

It was getting really late…

Which brings me to bedtime stories.

Sometimes, I… skim a bit.   Less so now that you’re older, and better able to follow narratives.  

The Little House on The Prairie books?  

I skimmed the shit out of those.   

So much for my father of the year award.

A whole page spent on describing the minutia of dress making cira 1880?  Gray poplin under skirt, with enough room for hoops in case…….

Oh, hell no.  I’m a DAD!!!  Skim!  

You really didn’t miss anything important, I’m pretty sure.

But I WAS reading to you.  Snuggled up with you on your bed, reading you chapter books that I knew you were enjoying, modulating my voice as it got later and later, to become a little quieter, a little more soothing… 

So, no harm, no foul, right? Can I have a hug?

Excellent.

Oh, and sometimes, when we say “it’s time to go.  2 more minutes!” when you are not done having fun yet?

There’s no real reason for it.  “time to go”  is relative sometimes, based solely on a whim, on how we feel about it at that very moment. 

It's a harsh reality, best not to think about it too much.

Would you like me to read you a book?  maybe play a board game?

When kayaks attack, or... I had it coming....

So, my kayak attacked me this morning.

I built it a nice rack to hang upon, on the wall of my garage.  

And there it was, laying in wait this morning.

And there I was, minding my own business, sliding by it to get into my car to go to work, like I have done countless mornings before.

All of the sudden, I found myself snared, entangled in the strap I keep on the front end of it.  It had wrapped itself around my lunch pail and neck.    

Keeping my cool, I spun myself free, and hopped into the car, quickly shutting the door behind me.  I looked out the driver’s side window, to make sure there would be no further aggression, and drove out of the garage.

Oddly enough, I understand.  I haven’t really been there for it.  I’ve not given it the attention it deserves.   We never go out anymore, I never take it anywhere nice…

Our relationship’s never been overly exciting, more a casual thing than any kind of serious commitment.   We go out and have fun together a couple of times a summer, maybe I’ll let it go on vacation with me if the circumstances are right.   But, up until now, it's worked for me, and I assumed for it as well.

But for whatever reason, it’s not moved from its nice rack, so far this calendar year.

If this is the kayak’s reaction to a year of me not paying it enough attention, I dread going anywhere near the corner of the basement where my fishing gear is stored.  

Yeah, we had a lovely weekend away together in Wisconsin, back in May.   But since then….

And since my fishing gear is full of pointy metal objects and knives and lead weights, I could be in big trouble, if I turn my back at the wrong time.     

Bad things could happen.

And my pristine, unwrinkled, so-clean-you-could-eat-off-of-it IL fishing license will sit on the shelf, laughing as it all goes down.  

On the other hand, my camping gear should LOVE me, as we dusted IT off, and took it away for a weekend in the woods for the first time in over six years, a few weeks ago.

And it was awesome, and smelled of promise of more to come.    

And wood smoke.

And Citronella oil.

Maybe that’s what promise smells like, to camping gear….

Anyhow, you’d think it would have my back, protect me from violent kayak-tic outbursts.

Where’s the gratitude?

Matchmaker matchmaker... thoughts on recruiters

Given my rather rarified career choice, I get calls and emails from random recruiters on a fairly regular basis.      In this economy, I feel blessed about this fact.

Truly, and without joke.  I am lucky that I get those calls and emails.


But at the same time- I have learned to approach all of these calls with caution and at best guarded optimism.  

Honestly, I'm shocked how many of these folks are out there, and also shocked that so many of them seem to make a good living at this.

You've been at this for 15 years?  But... but... you're kind of a goof....

Sure, Bob, I remember talking to you a couple months back, about that opportunity in suburban bumf*ck.  We talked about the fact that as long as it was an opportunity here, and not in someplace like suburban bumf*ck, I'd be happy to talk to you again.   Another opportunity? Awesome, where?
Really? Suburban Bumf*ck again?   It's actually the same exact position?  Please lose my phone number.

And you over there, you just took an hour of my life up, giving me hard hitting interview tips like.... don't swear, don't talk with a mouth full of food, and wear a freakin' tie.
And this is the chat I couldn't have while driving, in case I needed to write down some of this important information?
The tie, by the way, that you won't even bother to verify is really necessary, given that it's more and more accepted that the interviewee match the dress code of the company who's interviewing him. Oh and given that it's after hours at a bargain family restaurant chain...
By the way, can I assume they're buying me dinner?
You don't KNOW???????  Can you find out?  You can't????

How will they know who I am, to meet me?  I'll be the only guy in a freakin' suit, the guy that everyone else in the place is staring at.

(And that's pretty much exactly how it went down...)

And YOU....YOU.... were contracted to submit non-local candidates for consideration, but didn't even bother to ask if they'd be willing to do a phone interview?  I'd really like to do the first round over the phone.   No?  Can you at least inquire?  They must realize they're half a day's drive away... You don't want to alienate them by pushing for it?  okay doke.

While it WAS a lovely day for a 3.5 hour drive to the potential employer, I knew less than five minutes into the interview that I didn't want the job, and that they didn't want me.
But I drove 3.5 hours, so my desire to say "well, I've heard enough, do you validate?" was kept at bay...
Oh, but you wanted feedback after the interview?
Ok, here's your feedback.
A phoner would have been really damn handy.  But I found a nice cheese shop by the interstate, if you're driving through the area there....

In my youth, my mom approached me about asking out the daughter of a coworker of hers.
She said that the daughter had seen my picture, and thought I was cute.   So, I went on what was the most disastrous and uncomfortable date of my young life.   No kiss, home by 8:30, a dozen words exchanged all evening.  Movie even sucked....

Mom, what the hell?    turns out, the COWORKER saw my picture, and thought I was cute, and would be a good date for her daughter, who maybe, just maybe, liked her men a little more.... trashy.
But, wait.  the coworker thought I was cute?? Maybe I had a better shot with her.

Bad communication, less than complete honesty and understanding of the players and the game.....
While I never encouraged my mother to repeat her attempt at matchmaking, I happily take calls and emails from strangers, who are no better equipped, informationally speaking.


With a few exceptions (great exceptions that keep my mind open to those calls and emails), I've never spoken to so many people that consistently know so little about the one task they've been given to complete.

Last week was a fine example.   Random guy does a word search on Linked In, and gets my name.
He has an awesome opportunity.    He tells me about it, and...it sounds familiar.   And I check old emails, and find that a completely DIFFERENT random person from a completely different random company tried to get my interest in the exact same position, over two months ago.

Against my better judgement, I involved myself in his quest.  And... after a week he confesses that his client did not want even want to look at my credentials.
Didn't want my....??????  WTF?
They weren't looking at any more candidates, at this time.

You're recruiting me without even knowing whether or not they're still looking for candidates?
Awesome.  Top notch, Spaulding!   Top notch!

You've got a girl you think would be perfect for me?  Sounds niiiiice.  Set it up!

What's that, she's ENGAGED?  To another woman??
On who's behalf were you calling me, exactly?

I get it.  Really.   You operate within a business model that states you get no $$$ if your potential client does not hire someone you present to them.  So it's in your best interest to cast a wide net.

And I'll gladly let you cast your wide net onto me, every time, because... you simply never know.

Maybe this girl will be different. Maybe she'll smell nice and bathe regularly, and have a good sense of humor, and like good music, and have a job, and no anger issues, and be physically aggressive in a good way....


But can y'all tighten it up a bit?   And ask better questions, get better answers, and assume, if I have the background you're looking for, that I am a professional?   And never, ever, forget that YOU called ME?

Please?

Here, fishy fishy fishy fish!

Another fishing weekend on the books.

Sixth one, I believe.

And why haven't  you come along?  

Lots of laughs, as always, and I'm really glad I have the opportunity every year to set up the trip.


No bitter cold rainy days this year.

Nah, we thought we'd try something new this year, and had three days of 90 degrees and relentless sunshine.

And wind from the south, which apparently makes the fish decide they don't need food.

Yeah, it effects me the same way.  Wind from the north, I'm all "Feed me, Seymour".
Wind from the west, and I'm all "of course I want some cheesy poofs!"
Wind from the south, however....

So, we fished.  And tried not to overheat.   And fishing started off great, and went progressively downhill over the course of the weekend.
Because of sunshine, and south winds, apparently.

Current goes from north to south, but the wind blew south to north, so we spent the entire day saturday drifting upwind in our rented boat.

And in case you don't get the issue here....  WE WERE DRIFTING UPSTREAM.
UPSTREAM!!
AGAINST the current.
That's not supposed to happen.

So, a dozen or so fish on friday  begat 8 fish saturday morning first thing, and a grand total of... 2 more the entire rest of the day.   Which begat... 4 fish this morning.

*&^*^%$ south wind.

My theory?  one of my companions snagged something odd out of the river friday night.  A very old baby doll, complete except for a missing head.  It had obviously been in the river a long time.

He brought it out of the water and onto the bank, and we all just stared at it.  Guys further down the river bank came to see what he had brought in, and they just stared at it, too.

So there we all were, about six of us, standing in a semi-circle, staring at this old, dirt covered, headless doll.

"That's f*cked up." one of the guys from up the bank said, breaking the silence.
"Yep."
"Not Stephen King-y and creepy at all, Eddie."  I reassured my friend.
"Let's take it back to the cabin with us.  You can cuddle it tonite."
"No, dude.   I'm good."

Fishing went down hill after he brought that cursed headless doll to shore....


We fish in  a small town that does not hold ones' attention for any length of time.

The 170 lb sturgeon that was caught, and stuffed and mounted on the wall of Woodeye's bar and grill, got us in the door.

And yeah, we were THAT lazy, after day two of 12 hours of sun and heat that we had pizza delivered, from the place two blocks away.

We were on the young end of the age spectrum crowding the fishing docs, the river bank, and the boat rentals.  We talked to a number of guys who've been renting the same cabins, on the same weekend, every year for the last 20+.

Some of them have actually shown up, and gotten the weather and the fishing that they were expecting to have.    At least one time in the 20 + years they've been making the drive.  So perhaps one year in the near future, it might even happen for me....

Apparently, when you've been coming there long enough, and you reach a certain age, you decide that courtesy is no longer something you need worry about.

Mind if I slide in next to you here on the river bank?
Well, it IS getting pretty crowded.
Thanks, I appreciate it.  Oh, did I cast over your line?
Oh, did I do it again?
Guess you should get out my advanced-aged way then, sparky, cuz I'm not moving.

We marveled at how many guys were fishing on top of each other on the fishing dock, as we drifted, unanchored, upstream past the marina OVER AND OVER on saturday.

Wow, check out those f*ckin' guys.   there must be 10 of 'em....

So, we were up at the ass-crack of dawn this morning, and looked out the front window, and there was a perfectly empty fishing dock.
"Fish on me!"  I heard it whisper.
"Fish on me..."
So I took pole, and bait, and landing net and coffee and trotted across the narrow street, past the rental boats, and onto the dock.
And I immediately caught a small walleye.     And my two fishing partners joined me.  And it was good.
And then an older guy in a wife beater and a doo rag walked down, plopped down on the bench next to me, and immediately started casting.
Oh, where are you at? Did I cross your line?

And a few minutes later, two of his friends joined him.   Errr... Us.
One of them immediately mis-cast, and began dropping F bombs....
And two more guys from their group came. and another....

And... geezus.

When a younger guy lead a blind man down onto the dock, who in turn tapped my leg with his cane, and asked "Room for more?"    I realized it was time to move along.

So we moved to the river bank, and awaited the inundation of the the guys we had come to refer to as "Those guys from the Cocoon movie...".     But it didn't happen this morning, a couple more fish were caught, and we packed it up early and went to check out.

Hey, Marlis.   Might as well book a couple of cabins for this weekend next year.  I know you fill up.

Turns out, they already were filled up.  

"All of them have been reserved for next year already?"  I ask, surprised.
"No, but a lot of these guys will be checking out later this morning, and always reserve, so..."
"So you can't let me have one, though I'm here before them? "
"Well, they do come every year..."
"I've been coming every year, too.  I even came 2x last year...."

She checked her appointment book, looked around the bait shop, and in hushed tones, said she could pencil me in on cabin 11.  
She emphasized the use of pencil.

"See, because the gentleman who's been renting IT for the last 25 years.... They don't expect he'll be back again."

Oh.
"Yeah, everyone was kinda surprised that he made it this year. He's been renting it for two weeks, every year.   It was he and his wife, they started coming up after they retired.
Then it was just him.
He has grandkids, nephews and such, they all come up for a couple days here and there, but don't plan to continue, if he's not here. "

Oh.

So, if the guy from Cocoon, who was nice enough to chat with friday night, until he basically ran us off the riverbank by casting over us, doesn't survive 'til next may, I can have his cabin.  My name's in the book, in pencil.  Just in case the worst case ends up... being the case.

I'll have a seat at the table, so to speak.  I'll get a cabin, and can have it year after year after year if I want it.    I'll have dibs!    I'll have arrived!
YES!!!!!

And, so I get choked up, writing about it.

And maybe, one year, the weather will be what it's supposed to be, the fish will run like they're supposed to, and it'll be exactly like it's supposed to be.  
Only for me to realize that "exactly like it's supposed to be" is whatever it happens TO be, on any given year.

And maybe it's not REALLY about the #$%&&&#$ south wind; the white bass run, or how many guys are on the goddamn fishing dock.

But the headless baby doll WAS really creepy...

All of this for $0.28????

Received a letter in the mail the other day, from our Mortgage company.
Rarely is mail from your Mortgage company a good thing....


This one is no exception, stating  that they received word we're in arrears on our property tax by......$0.28, and that since we're in arrears, we're technically in default on our mortgage.

My first response was to assume it was an error, as we always pay our taxes, and we hadn't received anything from the county indicating that we owe them anything.

My second thought was to let it ride.   How far would a big bank go for $0.28 cents???

What a lovely news story it would be, Chase Bank harrassing and threatening foreclosure on 28 cent short pay of property taxes....

Then I realized I didn't really want to find out how far they'd go.

So I spent WAY too much time navigating automated phone systems at our assessor's AND county clerk's office today, only to find out that I did, indeed, write check for wrong amount, LAST YEAR, and I  really DO owe $0.28.    
And according to the automated phone system, I can pay it at any... Chase bank location in the chicagoland area, as they provide the service for the county.


I called the one by my house.  Yep, they'd be happy to take my late payment, but only if I had original payment coupon.

Which I don't have, because... I PAID MY GODD*MN PROPERTY TAX BILL WITH IT, 7 MONTHS AGO!!!!.

Oh, well, then... they can't help me.

So back to the automated phone system at clerk's office. Found a way to get to an actual person.   Projected wait time.... 29 minutes and 58 seconds.

Called back an hour later, projected wait time - 19 minutes and 28 seconds.

Called back a bit ago, projected wait time - 1 minute.  Now we're talking.

And a minute later, we actually WERE talking.

And the rep there will happily send me a NEW property tax bill for $0.28, so that I can actually pay them.   I asked why I hadn't heard from THEM that I was in arrears.

"For $0.28??  we wouldn't send a notification out for something that small."

"But you DID, obviously, to my mortgage company."

So in a few days, I'll receive the bill, and my first thought was to take it, with 28 pennies, to the nearest Chase bank.  Until I was reminded that they don't have to accept pennies in excess of $0.25 toward bill payment.    Likely to ensure that disgruntled customers don't walk in with a five lb bucketful, to pay overdraft fees or somesuch.....

So, for $0.28 cents...

the county sent a letter to my mortgage company.
The mortgage company sent a letter to me.
I spent roughly an hour of my life determining that I did owe them $0.28, but had no way to pay them.
They in turn will be generating another letter, AND paying postage on it, so that I have a way to pay them their $0.28.
I will in turn spend more of my time going to the bank, with five nickels and three pennies, to pay the amount.
I will be giving the bill and the coin to a teller, who will then send it elsewhere, where it will be handled again, likely, and processed, and deposited and notated and.... geezus.


Awesome.

get out the map, lay your finger anywhere down...

Another post about traveling.  Not interested?  thanks for stopping by anyhow.

What's 15 hours long and mind-numbingly dull?    The drive from Chicago to the MS gulf coast.

So, is it more or LESS god-awful, if you do it all at once, or you split it up into two days?

Doesn't matter, as it turns out.

Hit the road early on a friday morning, leaving Chicago in the rain.   Crappy, uncomfortable rental car full of snacks and good cheer and entertainment for a  four year old.    Just south of Kankakee, we spotted a wolf, prowling around in the median of the interstate.   Sweet!
Besides that, all we had was an ipod full of music, a cute kid, and watching for hawks to help make the miles fly by...

200 miles in, we stopped for breakfast,  At a restaurant chain known for it's rocking chairs; routing dining customers through their gift shop; and... gravy, I think.  
Tip for this restaurant chain - invest in smaller plates.  They'll make your portions LOOK bigger when you bring them to the table.

Oh, and run our damn bill up for us, please.  It's kind of annoying, making us go back to your gift shop to pay for our breakfast.  your restrooms were also located in the gift shop...

If we didn't know better, we'd begin to think you were trying to trick us into buying tacky crap in your gift shop.  
Fiona loved her new doll by the way.   At least for the first 48 hours or so.
Bastards.
Oh, and your Clove Gum was really stale.

We made it to our day one destination well within our target time, marveling at how smoothly the drive went, how easy it was, etc.  To the point that we were talking about how maybe next time, we'd go 11 hours instead of 7.5...

Blytheville, AR exists for some reason.   I'm not clear what that reason is, but in the middle of nowhere, it's a town that gets two exits on the interstate, and has every chain hotel and restaurant known to man.

And we were happy to be there.  

We explored the town a bit, being  turned away from the Holiday Inn because we were a half hour early and they wouldn't let us check in.

Almost immediately received a reminder about not judging books....  
At the local park.  Which was not in great shape.  
But it had lots of kids at it, and their moms, most of which did not appear to be in much better shape than the park.

Surprise!  they were all super nice.
The moms struck up easy conversation with us immediately, while one of the older girls offered to push Fiona on the swings, since she was pushing her little sister already.

We got more love from strangers at a park 500 miles from home, in 10 minutes, than we do at the nice parks in our middle class neighborhood at home.  

Talking in terms of getting love from strangers in parks... maybe I could have phrased that differently...

Similarly, we were treated with better customer service and kindness at the creatively named The Bookstore in Blytheville, than we receive at most retail establishments, hereabouts.  Including book ideas based on what THEIR children seemed to like, and tips on where to eat dinner.  Awesome place, The Bookstore in Blytheville, should you find yourself in the neighborhood.

The only other thing about Blytheville worth mentioning is that the coolest building in town is the one that is used to LEAVE town – the Greyhound Station.  Silver art deco, w/ a bit of neon.   It stood out like a piece of quartz floating in a cup of mud.  

Got up the next morning, packed the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and realized – all energy and “whoo hoo, this is easy!” from yesterday was gone.  

One day in a crappy, uncomfortable rental car was easy, two days… seemed like some kind of self-inflicted punishment.  

“Well, damn….” I muttered to myself, as I reluctantly turned the key in the ignition.

“this is gonna be a long day.”

TBC….

Oh, Canada...

Flew into Ottawa, ON on sunday.
Boy are my arms tired.


There's a whole lot of nothing to see out of the airplane window, for a very long time as you fly to Ottawa from Chicago.
as we got close, and started to descend, I really started to get a sense that I was in Canada.

Every creek, pond, river had squares of bare ice, where the snow had been cleared.

You'd think Hockey was a big deal here, or something.

And more so than the whole kilometer i/o miles thing on all the signs; and the gas prices listed per litre; it was the junior national Curling tournament on the TV at dinner that really hammered "You're in Canada" home to me.
Love nationally  televised sporting events where there's, like... 150 people actually watching it at the sports facility.
Woe is the Canadian sports network that didn't get the NHL broadcasting rights...

Then it was my cable tv at the hotel.   40 channels, several in french, over half of the 40 are news, sports or PBS-like.   A well informed, serious minded people, apparently.  Sports channels in Feb. in Canada show things like re-runs of old CFL playoff games; worlds strongest men competitions, Curling and... pro wrestling.  Woe is the canadian sports network that didn't get the NHL broadcasting rights...

TSN, by the way.    It's the real life equivalent of ESPN 8, "The OCHO!!!"

And given the apparent country-wide lack of interest in giving a creative name to anything, I bet TSN stands for...The Sports Network.    I bet they paid a marketing firm a ton of cash to come up with that name...

Lack of creative names... What am I talking about?  

There's a historical old church, dating from 1840 along the drive home.  It's light blue, and is the 2nd church built there, replacing the one from 1790 that burnt down.
What's the name of this quaint old church, surrounded by 200 year old grave markers?
The Blue Church.

And around the corner from my hotel, is a beer store.   Guess what it's called!
The Beer Store.

Oddly enough, the huge processing  plant with all the smoke and stuff billowing out of it, is not called "The Shithole" or "The blight on the landscape" or  "Icky". It actually has a corporate sounding name out front...


I have been driving back to my hotel along the St. Lawrence all week. Since I'm not in a hurry, have no place I have to be after work, no plans, no ideas... might as well take the scenic route.  

And it IS scenic.   A handful of picturesque (but not financially well off) old towns right on the water. Glimpses of 1000 islands around every curve. And a ton of historical markers, due to the fact that the area saw a lot of battles during Canada's fight to end English rule in the 19th century.

And French fry stands.
At least three of 'em between Cardinal and Brockville.  All of them closed until spring.  Each of them no bigger than a farmer's road side fruit stand.  

They take their fries pretty seriously, hereabouts.   A culinary specialty is Poutine.
That would be fries with fresh cheese curds and gravy.
I tried 'em last time I was in the area, and I'm still full, so opted out this go 'round.

As you drive along the water, you come upon signs, welcoming you to Johnstown, or Prescott, or Florence township.  

The usual artfully rendered wooden signs, with the name of the town, and a welcoming message underneath.

Like Johnstown's.    "We're Glad You're Here!" might be your guess for welcoming message.
OR
"Try our fries!"

Nope.

Welcome to Johnstown.
"Smoke Alarms save lives!"

a few Kilometers further east, you're welcomed to Historical Florence Township.

"Home of the AA Jr. Curling Champions 1987"?
nope.
"You're already home"?
Nuh uh.

Welcome to Historical Florence Township
"No Smoke Alarm?  NO chance!!!!!"

Unless you're driving the other direction, then the sign says "Have you checked your smoke alarm's batteries?"

And a bit later, you enter Brockville.
"Welcome to Brockville"
" Resort Liv..uh.. Do you smell smoke?"

Nah, I made that last one up.  

It's been fun running out to lunch with my coworker, in Cardinal.
Town's small.  REALLY small.  
And it's been a company town for a century at least.   At one point, 100% of the residents worked at the plant.   She's lived here her entire life.  

On the way to lunch today, she told me to watch out for the guy who was crossing the street, a block and a half in front of me.
"That's Earl.  Earl takes awhile to cross a street."
And he did.

And everyone in town can spot him from over a block away, and knows what to expect.

And to me, that's kinda awesome.  

You can keep your smoke alarm propaganda; your gut buster gravy fries; your lack of creativity in your naming of landmarks and retail outlets; and your lack of programming on your sports networks.
But I'll happily take the small town, the evening commute, and the idea of an Earl.

Southside Irish Parade 2012. Really??

Southside Irish Parade 2012. Yeah, THERE'S a good idea. But it's cool, because the parade's gonna be alcohol free. Logistically impossible. Unachievable. I wrote about the last one, which ended with me calling 911 as we beat a hasty exit from Maeve Park.

http://patrickosplayhouse.blogspot.com/2009/03/blog-post.html