You know what they say: one person's junk is another person's afternoon of browsing in someone's front lawn for that final piece to their living room.
Well maybe that's not quite how it goes. But as far as garage sales go it sounds pretty accurate to me.
Garage sales are the product of the annual spring binge of useless, but suddenly sentimental junk that you naturally try to con other people into paying you for. So it obviously makes for grand old time of treasure hunting and haggling for the best price on a singing moose head or those Pokemon cards you know are fake because they are purple instead of blue.
Stumbling across a garage sale is like actually coming across something with a metal detector on the beach; surprised euphoria mixed with an immediate downgrading of other priorities. I can root around in a garage sale for hours, trying to find hidden gems of books or toys or posters or you name it. Where else can you find a bowling ball for sale next to a blender going for $5? Maybe half a block down the street, but nowhere else.
I would even like to believe garage sales were the cause for my early education in business. At the age of eight I came across a set of long cabin-esque building blocks at a garage sale that I really wanted. I was told by someone that you should never pay the asking price at a garage sale and successfully haggled the price on the blocks from $5 to $3. Yep, Toronto Stock Exchange here I come!
So I am grateful for garage sales. I am grateful that they bring people out to enjoy the age old practice of bartering with their neighbour. I am grateful that they signal summer and they provide me with reading material or hours of play or, if nothing else, a few minutes of amusement as I look at the treasure trove in front of me, the objects telling a story about someone's life lived and a future full of hope.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
#86- Ice Cream
The ringer on my phone went off yesterday and it sounded like celebratory trumpets to my ears. That's because it signalled an email I received telling me I got a job at an ice cream store.
Finally, paid employment!
So while last week at this time I had zero jobs, now I have two. So in honour of that, I decided to write about the very thing I'll be dealing with for hundreds of hours over the next few months: ice cream.
I love ice cream. Some of my best memories of childhood include ice cream, from getting Superkid as a treat with my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, siblings and cousins to hanging out and eating soft serve ice cream on the grass at Ribfest with my friends. Yes, ice cream is a powerful force, bringing people closer together and, if you're not careful, closer to being overweight.
But I never worried about that because ice cream was a special treat for me and it still is. It signals the end to a good day, a special summer afternoon or a family outing.
Ice cream also lets you express yourself. That may seem a little weird to think about, but as a guy who thinks about food more than is probably healthy, I think many foods do let you define yourself. But ice cream even more so. There are so many flavours that you are not limited to what someone else wants or what you always have. It allows you to be adventurous, or traditional or both. It lets you mix and match and lets the world know if you are zany or classy or whatever you want to be.
Also ice cream just tastes good. There's no two ways about that.
So I am grateful for ice cream. I am grateful for the way it can bring people together over something so delicious. I am grateful that it can be a special treat on the hot summer days or to cheer up cold and drizzly ones. And I am grateful that it is around or I may still be unemployed right now.
Finally, paid employment!
So while last week at this time I had zero jobs, now I have two. So in honour of that, I decided to write about the very thing I'll be dealing with for hundreds of hours over the next few months: ice cream.
I love ice cream. Some of my best memories of childhood include ice cream, from getting Superkid as a treat with my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, siblings and cousins to hanging out and eating soft serve ice cream on the grass at Ribfest with my friends. Yes, ice cream is a powerful force, bringing people closer together and, if you're not careful, closer to being overweight.
But I never worried about that because ice cream was a special treat for me and it still is. It signals the end to a good day, a special summer afternoon or a family outing.
Ice cream also lets you express yourself. That may seem a little weird to think about, but as a guy who thinks about food more than is probably healthy, I think many foods do let you define yourself. But ice cream even more so. There are so many flavours that you are not limited to what someone else wants or what you always have. It allows you to be adventurous, or traditional or both. It lets you mix and match and lets the world know if you are zany or classy or whatever you want to be.
Also ice cream just tastes good. There's no two ways about that.
So I am grateful for ice cream. I am grateful for the way it can bring people together over something so delicious. I am grateful that it can be a special treat on the hot summer days or to cheer up cold and drizzly ones. And I am grateful that it is around or I may still be unemployed right now.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
#85- Shade
We've been riding a minor, spring heat wave here in Ottawa which would be the great if I had air conditioning at my house.
Instead I must enjoy the warm, sunny days choosing whether to slowly melt outside or inside. At least I have a choice, right?
But then there is a third option: bask in the early summer days while sitting beneath a giant oak tree in the park, its shade creating the most comfortable of environments.
I chose that option a couple days ago and sat in the shade in the park, reading a good book and enjoying the blue skies without being roasted by them.
Shade has saved me a few times before. Last summer I was working at the golf course and the heat in the early afternoon would become almost unbearable, but getting that sweet, sweet assignment to tend to the trees meant an afternoon with slightly cooler temperatures.
Shade provides refuge, comfort and a reprieve from the sun without having to waste a beautiful day inside or freezing your fingers off in an over air conditioned building (that's when irony isn't so funny). Shade gives us a place to relax, a perfect picnic spot, a reading nook or a nap area. In short, shade can be whatever you want it to be except boiling hot.
So I am grateful for shade. I am grateful for the trees or awnings or the other things that create shade. I am grateful for way shade allows me to enjoy the summer at the height of its heat without suffering from heat stroke or sun burn. You can have your air conditioning and your fancy fans, but I'll take the shade of a good tree any day.
Instead I must enjoy the warm, sunny days choosing whether to slowly melt outside or inside. At least I have a choice, right?
But then there is a third option: bask in the early summer days while sitting beneath a giant oak tree in the park, its shade creating the most comfortable of environments.
I chose that option a couple days ago and sat in the shade in the park, reading a good book and enjoying the blue skies without being roasted by them.
Shade has saved me a few times before. Last summer I was working at the golf course and the heat in the early afternoon would become almost unbearable, but getting that sweet, sweet assignment to tend to the trees meant an afternoon with slightly cooler temperatures.
Shade provides refuge, comfort and a reprieve from the sun without having to waste a beautiful day inside or freezing your fingers off in an over air conditioned building (that's when irony isn't so funny). Shade gives us a place to relax, a perfect picnic spot, a reading nook or a nap area. In short, shade can be whatever you want it to be except boiling hot.
So I am grateful for shade. I am grateful for the trees or awnings or the other things that create shade. I am grateful for way shade allows me to enjoy the summer at the height of its heat without suffering from heat stroke or sun burn. You can have your air conditioning and your fancy fans, but I'll take the shade of a good tree any day.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
#84- Fireworks
This past weekend was Victoria Day weekend, otherwise known as May 2-4 or The Royal May 2-4 if you're a member of the Conservative Party.
There are a few things that happen every May 2-4 weekend as many of you may know. These include cottage country traffic, patios filling up and the air beginning to smell like someone slathered sun screen all over the city.
But one of the best traditions on this holiday weekend is fireworks.
Unfortunately, since Mother Nature decided to make it pour rain last night, I didn't get to see the massive fireworks show in Ottawa. But that doesn't change the fact that fireworks displays are amazing.
Even in a time and place where the miraculous has become the norm with the help of computers, tablets, special effects and those weird glasses you get at 3D movies, the dazzling display of lights and sounds on such a grand scale as a fireworks show can transfix people. And that's the amazing part, that such wonderment and awe can still be felt, such joy can be well up inside of people at seeing the sky turn yellow or red or orange or purple or whatever colour you could think of.
It's so rare to get tens of thousands of people all appreciating such a simple, but beautiful thing at the same time, to get them together and watch as they fall silent in the presence of that beauty. And seeing the fireworks is like seeing a movie for the first time again, when you wonder for a second how such a thing can happen before enjoying the show.
So I am grateful for fireworks. I am grateful for the people who work on setting up the shows for the special days and for the nights when the sky is clear and the air warm enough to enjoy such a display of beauty and might. When I was little I used to be scared of the tremendous sound of fireworks, but I loved watching the bursts of colour and crazy patterns. So I would watch them the window in my bedroom, sad when they finished, not able to get enough of the spectacle. And I don't think I ever will.
There are a few things that happen every May 2-4 weekend as many of you may know. These include cottage country traffic, patios filling up and the air beginning to smell like someone slathered sun screen all over the city.
But one of the best traditions on this holiday weekend is fireworks.
Unfortunately, since Mother Nature decided to make it pour rain last night, I didn't get to see the massive fireworks show in Ottawa. But that doesn't change the fact that fireworks displays are amazing.
Even in a time and place where the miraculous has become the norm with the help of computers, tablets, special effects and those weird glasses you get at 3D movies, the dazzling display of lights and sounds on such a grand scale as a fireworks show can transfix people. And that's the amazing part, that such wonderment and awe can still be felt, such joy can be well up inside of people at seeing the sky turn yellow or red or orange or purple or whatever colour you could think of.
It's so rare to get tens of thousands of people all appreciating such a simple, but beautiful thing at the same time, to get them together and watch as they fall silent in the presence of that beauty. And seeing the fireworks is like seeing a movie for the first time again, when you wonder for a second how such a thing can happen before enjoying the show.
So I am grateful for fireworks. I am grateful for the people who work on setting up the shows for the special days and for the nights when the sky is clear and the air warm enough to enjoy such a display of beauty and might. When I was little I used to be scared of the tremendous sound of fireworks, but I loved watching the bursts of colour and crazy patterns. So I would watch them the window in my bedroom, sad when they finished, not able to get enough of the spectacle. And I don't think I ever will.
Friday, May 18, 2012
#83- The Smell of Freshly Cut Grass
Today is the start of May 2-4 here in the land above the 49th parallel and that means one thing: the start of summer.
This is the weekend when patios fill up, cottages open up and fireworks light up and for many this marks the beginning of a few months of glorious sun, or, if you live way up there, a few months of bad skiing season.
But for me there is something else that appears around this time that puts my head in a summer place and that's the smell of freshly cut grass.
When I walk down the street and get a blast of that newly chopped green in my nostrils I can't help but think of days spent playing soccer, swimming in pools or just reading a book on a lawn chair as dusk sets in.
For me the smell of freshly cut grass marks a beginning. It is like nature's version of a ribbon cutting for a new building. It is a rebirth of sorts where the old is taken out and the new brought in. It means the grass is growing and the winter has been left far behind.
Last summer I had my fair share of days where all I did was cut grass, but that smell still makes me think of care-free times and has me looking forward to more in the near future.
So I am grateful for the smell of freshly cut grass. I am grateful for the thoughts of good times it can provoke. I am grateful that the sound of a lawn mower can be the starting gun for summer, but hopeful that we won't race through it, but enjoy whatever comes and all the fun times, sunny days and summer nights that follow.
This is the weekend when patios fill up, cottages open up and fireworks light up and for many this marks the beginning of a few months of glorious sun, or, if you live way up there, a few months of bad skiing season.
But for me there is something else that appears around this time that puts my head in a summer place and that's the smell of freshly cut grass.
When I walk down the street and get a blast of that newly chopped green in my nostrils I can't help but think of days spent playing soccer, swimming in pools or just reading a book on a lawn chair as dusk sets in.
For me the smell of freshly cut grass marks a beginning. It is like nature's version of a ribbon cutting for a new building. It is a rebirth of sorts where the old is taken out and the new brought in. It means the grass is growing and the winter has been left far behind.
Last summer I had my fair share of days where all I did was cut grass, but that smell still makes me think of care-free times and has me looking forward to more in the near future.
So I am grateful for the smell of freshly cut grass. I am grateful for the thoughts of good times it can provoke. I am grateful that the sound of a lawn mower can be the starting gun for summer, but hopeful that we won't race through it, but enjoy whatever comes and all the fun times, sunny days and summer nights that follow.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
#82- Beaver Tails
I've eaten many an exotic dish, from bison roasts to crocodile nuggets and even ostrich meatballs, but one of the most delicious has got to be beaver tail.
For those not familiar with the famed beaver tails you should know two things: you should get familiar with them fast and don't worry, they aren't actually the tails of real beavers.
Really what they are is dough, stretched out into the shape of a beaver's tail and fried until golden brown and then topped with delicious toppings such as chocolate sauce and bananas or cinnamon and sugar.
So no, they wouldn't be a food featured on Body Break segments (something for those 90s kids), but they are a great bad habit once in a while.
But beaver tails are more than that. They are a Canadian delicacy (Canada: serving up horribly addictive and unhealthy fried food for more than a century). This is usually how it goes with traveling foodies: they flock from all over just to get a taste of the beaver tail, are a little disappointed that it's not real beaver and eventually leave happy with chocolate smeared all over their faces.
Beaver tails are also a staple of one of the greatest events I have ever experienced; skating on the Rideau Canal. Skating on the canal itself is amazing (the largest rink in the world!), but when the wind is blowing and you can't feel your fingers, having a nice warm beaver tail in your hands warms them up quite nicely. And you don't even have to take off your skates.
In short, beaver tails are something to enjoy and to take pride in. They are a Canadian invention, right up there with the zipper, basketball and twelve different ways to say sorry. They are delicious and certainly not nutritious. They are a tradition, a hand warmer, a conversation starter and one of the best possible ways to end off a night out with friends.
So I am grateful for beaver tails. I am grateful that we can honour one of our greatest national animals with its very own food. I am grateful for how good they taste and that I can feel better about eating them after having skated a few kilometres. I am grateful that they are so popular and awesome that the president of the United States came all the way up here just to have one (and do some other diplomatic stuff I guess). And I am grateful that I can say I've had a beaver tail before, because that's something not too many people can admit they've done.
For those not familiar with the famed beaver tails you should know two things: you should get familiar with them fast and don't worry, they aren't actually the tails of real beavers.
Really what they are is dough, stretched out into the shape of a beaver's tail and fried until golden brown and then topped with delicious toppings such as chocolate sauce and bananas or cinnamon and sugar.
So no, they wouldn't be a food featured on Body Break segments (something for those 90s kids), but they are a great bad habit once in a while.
But beaver tails are more than that. They are a Canadian delicacy (Canada: serving up horribly addictive and unhealthy fried food for more than a century). This is usually how it goes with traveling foodies: they flock from all over just to get a taste of the beaver tail, are a little disappointed that it's not real beaver and eventually leave happy with chocolate smeared all over their faces.
Beaver tails are also a staple of one of the greatest events I have ever experienced; skating on the Rideau Canal. Skating on the canal itself is amazing (the largest rink in the world!), but when the wind is blowing and you can't feel your fingers, having a nice warm beaver tail in your hands warms them up quite nicely. And you don't even have to take off your skates.
In short, beaver tails are something to enjoy and to take pride in. They are a Canadian invention, right up there with the zipper, basketball and twelve different ways to say sorry. They are delicious and certainly not nutritious. They are a tradition, a hand warmer, a conversation starter and one of the best possible ways to end off a night out with friends.
So I am grateful for beaver tails. I am grateful that we can honour one of our greatest national animals with its very own food. I am grateful for how good they taste and that I can feel better about eating them after having skated a few kilometres. I am grateful that they are so popular and awesome that the president of the United States came all the way up here just to have one (and do some other diplomatic stuff I guess). And I am grateful that I can say I've had a beaver tail before, because that's something not too many people can admit they've done.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
#81- Reunions
I was waiting anxiously at the bus terminal yesterday for my girlfriend to arrive from Paris. I paced up and down the gates, looking out the window every couple seconds in hope of catching a glimpse of an incoming bus.
And then finally I saw one pulling in and ran to the gate. Through the glass doors and the window of the bus I could see a girl with short, blonde hair that could only mean it was my girlfriend. I pushed through the crowd, almost in slow motion. My only thought was to get to her, to hug her for the first time in two weeks.
I got to the front, my smile growing with every step. As she came out the door she looked up and... it wasn't her. No, it was some other girl and I was standing there, a dopey smile still on my face because my face muscles still hadn't registered what my brain had; this wasn't the bus from Montreal that my girlfriend was on.
Nope, life isn't a Nicholas Sparks book, but the reunion between my girlfriend and I did come, about 20 minutes later, and it didn't matter that there was no corny soundtrack or slow motion run towards each other through the rain or gently swaying tulips in an open meadow.
What really mattered is that we were together again and that dopey smile was back on my face as we hugged and talked about her trip and laughed while we ate greasy burgers together as a welcome back to North American cuisine.
What mattered was not how it happened, but that it happened.
I'm sure everyone has had a reunion like that. Maybe not with so much hugging or the smell of diesel fumes spinning around, but one where you felt like the world was a picture hanging slightly off centre and had been straightened up again with the reunion.
It's always great to see your family again, or friends you haven't talked to in a while or a mentor that shaped your life's path and it's because when you're with those people again everything makes a little more sense, everything seems a little safer and you feel more confident. It's because you have the same memories, a shared history together, through good and bad, which makes you smile or laugh or even just makes you stronger on the inside. It's because being with those people makes you a better person and they feel the same way.
So I am grateful for reunions. I am grateful that I was reunited with my girlfriend yesterday. I am grateful for all those time in a year when I see those I love again after being away and the way my face lights up when we have a reunion. I am grateful that reunions bring people together, even after years of being apart sometimes. And I am grateful that they aren't always fairytale perfect, because that means each one is special in a way, each one is something to reminisce about at the next reunion.
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