Land (sc)Raping

They try to control nature because 'they love the great outdoors' or they 'love country life'. They love it to death, and they're the ones responsible for killing it.

If you took the Washademoak Lake away from Cambridge-Narrows, just sucked it up with an oversized Hoover (or Dyson, which claim to be better), then I'd be living in a village without water. What would life be like in Cambridge-Narrows without the lake? I wouldn't know, because I wouldn't live here.

I live here because of the lake. End of story....almost.

Every year some knuckleheads from the city decide that they want to have a beach in front of their cottage, so they hire someone to dump a load of sand on their shore, as you'll see in the image above (taken just yesterday). They spread the sand around and they tan happily on their little piece of Daytona Beach. Their kids or grandkids play happily with their Tonka trucks while mom and dad crisp up like fatty bacon.

Nine months later Daytona Beach disappears with the spring freshet and another bucketful of Sahara is ordered. I wonder if they wonder where all the sand goes. I doubt it, because if they did, they'd not put the sand down in the first place unless, of course, they were totally ignorant. It's possible. I've seen grown men do donuts on JetSkis for fifteen unabated minutes , like lardy Braun blenders, so anything is possible.

The sand goes into the lake, silts up the lake bottom and destroys a freshwater ecosystem that got along 'just fine', at least until the dump truck, bulldozer and SeaDon't were invented. If we all did what the people who own the cottage in the image above did, we'd destroy the very reason for being here. I, for one, want a healthy lake.

It's interesting to note that we, as landowners, don't actually own the shore front. Sure, we use it, sometimes abuse it, but we don't own it. It's crown land. This fact is becoming increasingly apparent as the Provincial Department of the Environment and the Federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans, along with the Royal District Planning Commission step up measures to protect our waterways and shores. Just yesterday two representatives of Fisheries and Oceans were here to inspect a shoreline that was egregiously raped by the homeowners who summer behind it. For the record, it wasn't the property in the image above.

Yes, there are more. Many more.

Our Provincial, Federal and District representatives are not working alone. The Canaan-Washademoak Watershed is doing a fine job of monitoring the health of the lake. They're creating a benchmark, if I understand correctly, so that we can tell if our lake is healing or on life support. They don't get much praise for what they do, but if you love the lake, then you might tip your hat, or your swimsuit, toward them. They've produced a number of publications which, ideally, will educate the public regarding the health of the lake and shoreline (riparian zone).

Beyond the men and women who make it their jobs to protect the Canadian wilderness, and the generous volunteers who spend years of their lives for our benefit and that of our lake, there are also many individuals in the community who keep a watchful eye.

If you screw with my lake, then you screw with me. Don't.

It's an uphill battle, for sure. There are a lot of ignorant people out there. To give an example, I once counted fifty-two empty Tim Horton's cups littering the roadside between Cambridge-Narrows and Springfield. That's in a twenty kilometre stretch of road that is at least thirty minutes away from the nearest Tim's! Some people don't care about this planet.

People need to know that if they want to build something, like a four lane highway into the lake as my neighbour has done, or a beach, they need to talk to the appropriate government departments first. And please, stop your whining about the government (gubberment). They're the same ones who heal you when you're sick, keep rapists and murderers behind bars, and educate your children.

They're trying to save our lake. To them I say 'thank you'. I'd tip my swimsuit toward them but, as many of you know, I only wear bathing thongs and that could send the wrong message.

In Search Of Mr. New Brunswick

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Hmmm, looks like there's a message on my answering machine.

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I pressed the play button and wondered what would could be so compelling that a message had to be left. I was more than pleasantly surprised to learn that I was the lucky recipient of the fabulous door prize raffled off at Cambridge-Narrows Community Day.

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I vaguely remembered putting my name and phone number on a piece of paper, though only because I was instructed to, and not because there was something that I desperately wanted to win (like a pony).

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The instructions left on the machine were that I could claim my treasure at the local library, so I flip-flopped my way out to my Kiwi green Ford Focus wagon and proceeded to my neighbourhood book depository. Upon entering and providing proof of identity (passport, driver's licence, fingerprint and temporary suspension of legal guardianship of my first born), I picked up my prize. The prize was so all encompassing that it had to be housed in a large, brilliantly sky blue nylon Co-op shopping bag. I should have taken this as a sign but I was blinded by greed, and the knowledge that a pony was somehow hiding inside.

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I didn't dare open it up in front of the young librarian and the literate patrons of the establishment, who surely would become envious of my good fortune, and undoubtedly try to unhand me of my winnings. Libraries tend to attract that crowd....literate, yet devious. Not unlike the crowds that gather at bus stations, except, in the case of the bus station, without the reading skills.

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I took my bounty home where I could appraise it in relative safety. As I reached into my goody bag, I first pulled out something big and red.

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A bloody pony!

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It was a ball cap. It was mail box red, with a short brim and a a tall crown. It said 'Bodco' on it and it was freakishly farmish. Honestly, I think that hat was part of an elaborate regifting scheme, but I can't prove it. It's the kind of hat that every Mr.New Brunswick would wear.

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I'm no Mr.New Brunswick.

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Think about it...I drive a Kiwi green station wagon. I'm a stay-at-home-dad/leisurologist. When something in my house malfunctions, I cry, then I call a tradesman. I don't think ATV weather girl, Cindy Day, is even remotely attractive. She couldn't hold a candle to Rose, though I wish she would for an extended period of time (like a week). If this isn't enough to convince you, then I'll let you know that I ate organic emu steak last night with steamed turnip and mustard greens on the side. I don't own a tractor or a pick-up truck. My middle name isn't Zeke, Earle or Festus. I'm incapable of displaying any sort of meaningful butt crack above my dog-eared jeans.

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I'm simply not a candidate to be Mr.New Brunswick, so the hat is of no use to me except in late October.

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I convinced a friend of mine to model the hat for this blog. his image is above, perhaps you stopped already to admire him and the bawdy cap. To protect his identity, I won't refer to him as Dave, which, in fact, is his real name. I'll call him Biff for the rest of this paragraph. Biff suggested, for authenticity, that he also pose with a pencil behind his ear (indicating a skill in some trade), a blade of grass in his teeth (deep agricultural roots) and a plaid shirt (proud owner of a Mark's Work Wearhouse credit card). Thanks Biff!

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Dave promptly removed the hat after the photo shoot, lest he was seen and recruited for the provincial Progressive Conservative party. This is not a jab at the PCs, I'm ferry sure they'll do a better job than our present gubberment, currently led by a gym teacher.

Have you heard the joke...

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Those who can, do.

Those who can't do, teach.

Those who can't teach, teach phys-ed.

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So I reached into the bag and pulled out another item. WTF!?!?! It said Tupperware on the top and it resembled a miniature plastic ball cap. Dear god, the prize pack had a theme. It's colour was a tragic shade of Barney purple. It had a protrusion or brim, which could be held in one hand, while a lid could be hinged open. It was a half round container of some sort. I had to go on-line to Tupperware's web site to discover what it was meant to do because, to me, it looked utterly useless.

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If you clicked on the Tupperware web link above, you'll see that the container was meant to house the half tomato or onion that you didn't use in last night's Hamburger Helper. That onion will live in its Tupper tub at the back of your fridge until 2014, when it'll slip out in the middle of the night, go to your bedroom and....well, use your imagination (you did cut it in half, after all). You don't ever want to disrespect a tomato or onion.

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I think that it's also interesting to note that this grape coloured veggie sarcophagus belongs to Tupperware's 'Forget-Me-Not' collection. Figure those odds.

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Also in my door prize were two paper Canadian flags on sticks, a tiny Canadian flag pin, and a bookmark with the words to O Canada printed in both official languages. There was also another piece of paper with the national anthem printed on it, in case I lost my bookmark at the hockey game and felt like singing along.

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I'm thinking about running a contest on my blog. E-mail (narrowsminded@aol.com) your best picture of what Mr.New Brunswick looks like, and you'll win a prize. It might be difficult to decide which entry will be the eventual winner, but I'll have no difficulty in gathering together a prize pack. All I can say is that you won't be getting a pony.

My So-called Cheeseless Existence

The hundred mile diet is a massive success so far, with two exceptions:

1) there are hidden ingredients out there that taint my virginity,
2) dirty dishes.

The dirty dishes never end. I need one pan to cook salmon or scallops. One pot for steaming turnip and mustard greens (turn up and must turd), another pot for boiling beans (must toot) and a crock to bake them in. I'm forever doing the dishes which I could just as easily do at a restaurant for $100/day, if I worked a twelve and a half hour shift. Minimum wage in New Brunswick is $8 per hour, tied with British Columbia for the lowest in the country.

My other niggling problem with the hundred mile diet is trying to remain faithful to my goal of being a purist to the concept. Here's an example: I like cheese and I've used the image above to prove it. I figured that Sussex brand cheese would be made from Sussex area milk, so I bought some. The ingredients in my old cheddar are as follows: milk, bacterial culture, salt, rennet and calcium chloride. It also says 'may contain colour'. What is colour exactly? And where does it come from? My cheddar is the colour of a school bus so, yeah, I'd say it may contain colour, or automotive paint.

There's a pretty good chance that the milk in my cheese comes from Sussex, New Brunswick's dairy town, not to be confused with Rogersville that boasts of being Canada's Brussel sprout capital. Nobody in Rogersville talks much about Brussel sprouts these days as the boom in Brussel sprout tourism seems to have died down. Even the thousand room Hyatt Grand Rogersville has closed it doors.

If you click on the link to the town of Sussex, as many tourists undoubtedly do, you'll find another link on the home page that allows you to use on-line services to pay your Sussex water and sewer bill by either Mastercard or Visa. Welcome tourists! What the hell were they thinking? It's possible that this web site was built for local residents but as a tourist, I'm more interested in the balloon festival than paying my innkeeper's sewer bill.

As someone who eats a lot of beans and mustard greens, I do have a passing fancy in keeping the sewers clear, so I'm not really complaining. It's more that I'm pointing it out as a curious addition to a tourist town's home page. They might have, for example, mentioned the murals that grace countless exterior walls throughout the town. Some are quite exquisite.

Back to my cheddar. The milk is probably local, makes sense. The bacterial culture is beyond me. My research takes me to the labs at CSI Sussex, yet I still don't understand what goes in the world of bacterial culture, so I'm going to pretend that I didn't see it on the ingredient label.

Rennet. What the ____ is rennet? I consult Wikipedia for information on rennet. It's not pretty. Suffice to say that it's a natural complex of enzymes produced in any mammalian stomach.

Enjoy your grilled cheese sandwich, my friends.

The girl working at the Armadale Farm stall at the Sussex Farmers Market kindly told me that her company buys rennet from Ontario.

There goes my hundred mile diet as far as cheese is concerned.

I bought some cheese from her anyway as the cumin gouda was too good to resist. I momentarily forgot that cumin came from Asia. I hope that, in time, I'll be able to forgive myself for my little transgression. My cumin gouda has me on the 10 000 mile diet with a pit stop in Ontario for some mammalian stomach enzymes.

Is there nothing local these days, other than breast milk, notwithstanding that they're served in cups likely sewn in China. (I might get some comments, finally, from this one).

I'm not going to give you the link to the Sussex Farmers Market web site as it's quite awful, plus you can't pay your water and sewer bill there. The market itself is quite lovely.

This incident with rennet has me reading the labels of everything. My Armadale Farm Balkan style yogourt contains streptococcus thermophilus. Streptococcus is wonderfully effective in producing yogourt, strep throat, meningitis, bacterial pneumonia and necrotizing fasciitis. Streptococcus is something that causes my wife to cancel concerts, thus impinging my ability to afford semi-local cheeses. In yogourt, it imparts a flavour that leaves me speechless.

My culinary world is in turmoil as you can see. I'm still a devout follower of the hundred mile diet and I'm planning on taking most of it into August with me. It's depressing that so many silent and muted ingredients come from afar. I have yet to contact the Sussex butter company to see where they get their salt. I pray to god that it's some kind of hideous byproduct from the Penobsquis potash mine, just down the road from Sussex.

I'm going to phone the Sussex butter company to see where they get their salt, right after I do the dishes.

What Did You Expect For A Hundred Dollars?

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Every now and again I have a good idea. It's even more rare when I have a great idea, one that's acknowledged by others as being above and beyond. Once a decade I have an epiphany. Yesterday was that kind of a day.

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An epiphany can mean a number of things to a number of people. Some people see it as an appearance or manifestation of a deity. I can't remember if I saw my reflection yesterday or not, which reminds me, I should clean the bathroom mirror. Some chatterbox was brushing his (or her) teeth while talking (or singing).

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No, my epiphany fell under the following definition:

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a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

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A homely experience, what's that? Finding a date in the Oromocto Mall, perhaps. I can't think of much else that falls under that literary phylum. I'm more concerned with my intuitive perception regarding a commonplace occurrence: work.

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Yesterday morning my phone rang, so I did the logical thing, I checked call display. At first I was disappointed. I miss telemarketers, they just don't seem to call anymore, with the exception of Michael (the bank card bastard). It wasn't Michael, it was actually someone I know and like. He needed some photography help and offered to pay me by the hour or by the job.

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Conundrum.

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Accepting money on a per hour basis smells like work, and my spider senses started tingling. Wait! It wasn't my spider senses after all, it was that mosquito bite on my rather private place (how she got there I may never know...that she got out is nothing short of a modern day miracle). We decided that I would be paid for the job. I justified the 'work' by treating the pay like an honorarium, which allowed me to feel that I was working for free. When I'm finally paid, I act surprised.

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Oh, you shouldn't have!

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My hand goes out, while simultaneously, a loud noise is heard from my backside. It's not what you think, though I understand your confusion. Yes, I have been eating a lot of baked beans on the hundred mile diet and they are, indeed, the musical fruit. In fact, it's my Scottish wallet, squealing at the thought of more sporran fodder.

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Or is it the sound of a mosquito exhaling?

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Being given an honorarium for my photographic and computer skills yesterday gave me my epiphany...

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People are willing to pay me for my talent/services.

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I am apparently marketable and I'm going to tell the whole world, but only after an elaborate round of test marketing. In the August issue of the Jemseg Lions News, an ad will appear. It's the culmination of my brain fart. The ad will read as follows:

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For Hire: Man

$100/day

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Hire Ian Varty for the same

amount of money that he made

as a substitute teacher.

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No job is too big or too small.*

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Eight hours per day, only $100 (paid

in cash, in an envelope, with the word

'honorarium' written on the outside.

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Call 488-2269 to speak to my

assistant, Karlheinz. (sorry,

District 17 need not apply).

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* note: some restrictions apply

regarding male prostitution and

other illegal acts in which there's

a chance that I might get caught.

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My next epiphany will be sometime around 2019 when I get out of jail for tax evasion (but it was a tax-free honorarium, your honor). Feel free to drop by my cell. If I'm not there, just leave a note with my cell-mate. His name is Brian.

I've Been Screwed Again

It's time for another boycott, and this one is well deserved. You see that brightly coloured surfboard in the image above, it was supposed to give me pleasure...and it will, but so far it's been a disappointment. It's not the surfboard's fault, it never is. Surfboards, by nature, are rather pleasant.

I went to Nova Scotia in mid-June on business.

But I thought that you were a leisurologist?

Okay, so my wife had some business in Halifax in mid-June and I did what every puppy of a husband does, I tagged along. One of my missions while in Halifax was to find and purchase a surfboard. Since my son will be going to university in Halifax in September, which coincides with the start of the Nova Scotia surf season, I'll be visiting him regularly (especially when the ocean swell is off the hook!).

And the father of the year award goes to.....Benedict Mulroney the first.

Huh? Brian Mulroney's father took the honour posthumously. His father is deserving of the award, as he worked more than one job to earn a little money on the side. Brian, too, earned a little money on the side, though he definitely didn't do it like his father.

His father was a paper mill electrician who ran an electrical repair shop during his time off. As a good father would, he encouraged his oldest son to go to university. Benedict begged Brian to do his studies at the University of Hawaii, where the surfing was infinitely better than in Baie Comeau. Brian decided that Antigonish was more attractive and headed off to St.FX. Once finished his undergraduate degree in Antigonowhere, he enrolled in the law program at Dalhousie University, then promptly flunked out.

Too much surfing and not enough studying, eh Bri?

Subsequently he managed to get a law degree from Laval. He flunked his bar exam twice, but then managed to pass. I wonder if he greased the palms of the Quebec Bar Association with a bag of Mila's finest perogies (you never know!).

My fascination with the Mulroneys goes way back. When the Harry Potter movies first came out, I immediately picked up on the fact that the character Draco Malfoy looked a lot like a towhead Ben Mulroney. We even nicknamed the character Draco Mulroneyfoy. I'm not sure how the Godfather slipped into my artistic homage to the Mulroneys, just a happy accident I suppose.

I'll never boycott the Mulroneys, they're way too much fun, but I may boycott a certain surf shop in Nova Scotia. I bought a surfboard at the South Shore Surf Shop in Lunenburg. The guy who I bought it from, the owner, was a very congenial, post 60s surf hippie. I bought the surfboard on a Friday and on Saturday morning I headed to Lawrencetown to christen the board. I had a small window of opportunity to surf and Saturday morning was it.

When we got to Lawrencetown we were met by pretty meager surf but the executive decision was made to give it a try. I started to put my fins on the surfboard until I realized...

I was screwed.

My long haired surf shop hipster friend had given me the wrong screws so I was unable to attach the fins to the underside of the board. Shit happens, and it was an honest mistake. I never hold a grudge after strike one. This ain't baseball however, and in my world you're out after two strikes. I sent the South Shore Surf Shop an exceedingly polite e-mail telling them the story. I included my address and asked that the fin screws be mailed to me. It's been two weeks now and...

Nothing.

Strike two.

That's unacceptable. It's sad because there are a number of surf shops on the south shore of Nova Scotia all vying for the same small envelope of cash. When I become a better surfer I'll need a smaller board. I know where I won't be buying it. I can't recommend this shop to my surfing friends either. To add insult to injury, the board that I bought is listed on the South Shore Surf Shop's web site for $525. I was charged $595. Strike three.

Malfoy....mal foi....bad faith. The surf shop owner has acted in bad faith and I'm not too pleased. This one really disappoints me. The surf stoke should be shared, particularly by those in the business of selling it. That surf shop owner should be doing everything, within reason, to make my experience more pleasant. I should be doing the screwing, instead of receiving it.

And so another draconian boycott begins.

My Breakfast Was O-Tay!

Fortunately I only have to cook breakfast for one little rascal, and this morning saw me whip up some bountiful buckwheat crepes. I found a New Brunswick supplier of buckwheat flour which fits nicely into our hundred mile diet. The hundred mile diet has been a huge success so far, though not without its challenges.

Breakfasts have been easy....eggs, oatmeal, yogurt, oatmeal, eggs, yogurt, eggs, eggs or oatmeal. Every morning I've employed the eenie-meenie-minee-mo method to decide what's on my plate. Life is simple when you have few choices. This morning I made breakfast a little sexier with buckwheat crepes. They were cooked in butter, doused in maple syrup, and topped with some fresh strawberries. You won't find anything better at Cora's, other than variety and west coast apples that have been sliced by an artist.

Suppers, like breakfast, have been pretty straight forward. We've been alternating between salmon and scallops, occasionally going vegetarian with baked beans. I need to find another source of local fish before I go bankrupt. No one's giving scallops or salmon away.

Julian, your pan fried gaspereau is ready!

I hate you Dad.

Although it's a little early in the season for fresh vegetables, I have been able to find asparagus, Swiss chard, lettuce, beet greens, spinach and lawn clippings. No joke, I actually find myself drooling when I look at a lush, green lawn. I might just go graze on my neighbours lawn, though I suspect that it's full of unnatural ingredients (should lawns glow at night?). Apparently I can eat dandelion greens, making my lawn look like a buffet.

I actually had a dream last night about food, which I never do, except for the recurring dream I have with a cameo by Megan Fox cradling a tub of Dream Whip. I suspect that Dream Whip isn't really considered food, since auto mechanics use it to grease wheel bearings in a pinch, so I probably shouldn't have brought up this dream. In my other dream, Robena Weatherley was showing me how to harvest and eat cattails. I remember stepping into the ditch and getting water over the top of my rubber boots...not a good start. I don't remember if I actually ate the cattails or not...they didn't look too appetizing.

Lunch is the meal that's the greatest challenge. I can always make a salad for myself, or have a repeat performance of oatmeal, eggs, yogurt or beans (literally, a repeat performance). Julian, who now has a summer job, needs to pack a lunch to take with him. Traditionally, pre-hundred mile diet, he'd get a sandwich but let's take a look at that for a moment. I can't give him bread until I learn how to bake it using local ingredients (this may never happen). So the sandwich I make him will have no bread. I can't give him a PB&J sandwich because peanuts aren't local. Jam contains a lot of sugar that isn't produced here. Sugar cane is produced in 195 countries with Brazil and India leading the way. Sugar beets are produced heavily in the United States, with the sweet little village of Sebewaing, Michigan (population 1974) calling itself the sugar beet capital of the world.

Is it just me, or do you also feel like necking with a local maple tree?

Okay, so I'm the only sugar whore.

Anyway, to pack Julian a sandwich for lunch involves no bread, peanut butter, jam, tuna, mayo, sliced meat (soy-based mock meat), mustard, tomatoes (so far). Julian's lunch looks invisible. He has no microwave at work, so if I prepare him something more breakfast or supperlike, he'll have to eat it cold.

Yummy, cold fried eggs!

Yes, I could make him hard-boiled eggs but I think they're disgusting, so I refuse to partake in their creation. There used to be, perhaps still is, a jar of them at the local general store. I want to hurl every time I see them. Keep your failed lab experiments under the counter, says I.

Do you remember the book/movie Alive about a team of South American rugby players whose plane crashed in the Andes? They were lost for 72 days and ultimately ended up cannibalizing each other when their rations of chocolate bars became depleted. Pretty gross. Imagine if I had been on that plane and, instead of chocolate bars, they had only boiled eggs. I'd have been the one licking my lips and looking around for a plump, juicy teammate. And a maple tree.

Lunch has been very awkward. I suppose I could make him a salad without a meaningful salad dressing, with a cold baked potato on top, surrounded by strawberries. This is what Captain Bligh fed the boys on the Bounty.

The focus of the hundred mile diet is no longer about eating food grown locally. It's now about staving off mutiny from the crew. There have been no threats, only support, but everyone has their breaking point. I think the buckwheat crepes were a good idea, at least for breakfast. They've bought me some time....I'm o-tay for the moment, but I still don't know what to make for lunch.

Maybe I should just give him a gaspereau and a Bic lighter...let him cook his own lunch.

I'll ponder that while I go off for a sail.

Crew! Prepare the Bounty.

Community Day Spirit

It's July 4 and you'd expect a parade. You'd expect large gatherings of strange people congregating on grassy lawns , eating mysterious foods barbequed beyond recognition. You'd expect a lot of flag waving and community spirit. A band should be playing foot stompin' tunes outside the hallowed halls of municipal government.

But this isn't America, it's Canada.

Oh, what the hell, let's have Cambridge-Narrows Community Day on July the 4th, a happy cross border co-inkydink.

Community Day is the one day that you can get out and meet n' greet your neighbours. It's also the one day that regular citizens can do what young Johnny does every day, ride his horse and/or four-wheeler down the middle of the highway. Community Day gives the Shriners the green light to act like Hell's Angels, bunching in up in packs and terrorizing the innocents with their squealing tires and menacing headgear which, by the way, doubles handily as an over-sized popcorn bucket, should you ever need one. Just give it a shake...you don't want fuzzy fez follicles in your puffed maize.

The parade starts at 11 a.m. and lasts a good half hour. You'd think that my favourite part of the parade would be watching the clowns, kids on streamer ladened bikes, fire trucks with sirens blaring and lights flashing, or Duncan revving his Corvette, not to mention the lavishly decorated floats.

In fact, my favourite part of the parade has always been watching the cars at the end of the line, filled with angry city folks who had no idea there was a parade. These unfortunates spend thirty minutes traveling one long kilometre at a pony's pace, with no chance to pass. If you're watching the parade and are uncertain who they are, they're the ones who neither smile nor wave.

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I like to give them a big wave anyway...nobody's going to rain on my parade, not that that could ever happen. After all, Rose said it would be sunny and hot with no probability of precipitation.