Slimming Through the Holidays.

The holiday season is filled with many gastronomic goodies, but you don’t have to go into it with the intention of over indulging and thus gaining weight. Here are a few tips to help you enjoy

Keep the Balance. You don’t have to overeat, but you also don’t have to deprive yourself of the fruitcake your aunt makes just once a year either. It’s all about keeping the balance. Eat light through the day if you’re invited to turkey dinner in the evening. Don’t make the mistake of starving yourself through the day to save up for dinner. Have a tossed salad with light protein like chicken or tuna for lunch, and some yogourt and fruit as a snack. When dinner comes you won’t be starving, and you’ll have spared enough calories through the day to allow for gravy on your potatoes and some dessert.

Slow & Steady. Eat whatever you want…just don’t eat as much as you want. Serving sizes these days have grown to huge proportions, so it’s no wonder our waist lines have too. When the cake gets passed around, have some, but ask for ½ a slice. Yes you can enjoy a truffle, but just take ONE. The key to small portions is eating slowly, savouring each bite. For the most part we are not “In the Now” when we’re eating. We’re rushing through the meal and shoveling it in, or eating unconsciously in front of the TV, or mindlessly filling our plates at a buffet. Don’t let this be you! Eat with purpose, eat thoughtfully, enjoy each bite, and put your fork down between bites so you don’t end up stuffing one spoonful in before the last one is gone. You’ll find yourself more satisfied when the meal is over, and less likely to go back for seconds or go looking for a huge dessert.

Extra Steps. Make an effort to get in a few extra steps over the holidays. Our holiday get togethers usually center around food, but why not suggest you do an activity together before or after dinner such as snowshoeing, cross country skiing or bowling. Not only will you get exercise but you’ll have fun too! During shopping park further away from the store, and enter the mall at the entrance at the opposite end of where you’ll be shopping. When you’re grocery cart is full and you’re heading for the checkout, take a few more minutes and make an extra loop around the peripheral of the store. If you’re in a hurry or just don’t feel like doing it, think about how you’d love to indulge in all the cheesecakes, eggnogs, and plum puddings of the season, and stay your same size. That might give you the inspiration.

Grab a Plate and Sit Down. Snack stations at parties can be our worst enemy. You know the ones I mean… plates and bowls filled with nuts, hard candy, fruit cake, fudge, cheese balls, and crackers. If you are hungry and want to indulge, then get a plate, choose the snacks you want, and go sit down and eat it. Don’t eat anything standing up! If all your friends are gathered around the snacks and you find the temptation too great, then pop in a mint or piece of gum to keep your hand out of the peanut bowl.

Mr. Fenwick stared hard at the back wall of the small room. He was standing with his left foot perched on the desk in front of him, absentmindedly pulling at the short hairs on the front of his shin with his right hand while he spoke.

“The term we use for this phenomenon is price inelasticity. On the other hand, if demand for a certain product falls as a result of an increase—”

“Mr.Fenwick I need to go to the toilet,” interjected a weedy, red headed boy named Michael.

“Very well then. Off you go,” replied the teacher without trying to disguise the annoyance in his voice.

Spontaneous conversation broke out following the interruption.

“Quiet please,” ordered Fenwick, then noticing a couple of girls giggling with their heads bowed at a corner desk he added, ‘Christine and Sharon. That means you too.”

The students noticed Mr. Fenwick had begun to rub and wring his hands together in agitation. A sure sign that he was losing his composure.

Fenwick paused before continuing. His train of thought had been derailed and his eyes wandered around the classroom as he searched his memory. Each student felt the burning glare of Mr. Fenwick’s eyes as he examined them, looking for clues in their faces.

“Craig Dyson!” exclaimed Fenwick as he watched his student writing on the desk. Craig looked up quickly to see his teacher standing a metre away from him with his arms folded. He was about to receive one of Mr. Fenwick’s infamous little lectures.

“Due to the fact that I am no longer speaking, Craig, I am wondering why you are still taking notes. Further—”

A quiet titter from behind caused him to stop talking and spin quickly to find its source. Unable to discern which of the bowed heads produced the noise, he issued a loud caution against any further sound and returned to Craig’s lecture.

“Furthermore, I am also curious as to why you are not using paper. Could you enlighten me? Do you have any paper?”

Craig was thinking hard of a good line to use to Mr. Fenwick. He had to save face. All eyes were upon him now and he could feel the fire of embarrassment scorching the back of his neck. Before he could speak Fenwick was at him again.

“I tell you what, Craig,” said Fenwick with his voice rising. “You can stay here after class and clean your desk of all that rubbish and nonsense that you put there.”

“I didn’t do it all, Mr. Fenwick,” protested Craig.

“I don’t care. You will clean it all off during your lunch break and as a reward I will give you some paper on which you will write, ‘I must not deface school property’ five hundred times.”

“That’s a bit much Mr.Fen—”

“How about a thousand times then?”

“Sir, I was only leaving a little note for my girlfriend in the next class. She misses me, you know how it is.”

Craig was pleased to hear the muffled sniggers of his classmates. However, he was disturbed to see that Mr. Fenwick’s face had changed colour. It was purple.

“Get out!” roared Fenwick. “Wait for me in the hall. Just outside the door. Go!”

Deciding against any more wisecracks for the time being, Craig slowly rose from his chair and sauntered out the door.

After watching him leave, Fenwick turned to the rest of the class and began to speak in a slow measured tone as if he was trying very hard not to swear.

“I won’t be long. Be quiet while I’m gone. I won’t tell you again. Be quiet or you can all join your clown of a mate out there for lunch.”

No one said a word. Mr. Fenwick had become very angry in a very short time but that was not unusual for the elderly economics teacher. The students knew him well. They knew the right buttons to press to get him fired up. Likewise they knew when to stop, unlike the court jester, Craig Dyson.

Out in the hall, Fenwick said, “Craig, this is not the first time I’ve caught you writing on the desks. Didn’t you learn anything from last time? Are you thick? Or are you deliberately trying to annoy me and big note yourself in front of your mates?”

Fenwick glared at Craig waiting for an answer. Craig stood staring at the floor wondering if his teacher expected an answer or if these questions were rhetorical. Mr. Fenwick loved rhetorical questions. He scratched his head and began to speak but Fenwick beat him to it.

“God damn it, Craig! At least do me the courtesy of looking at me when I’m talking to you,” he exploded.

Craig’s hand froze on his head as he lifted it slowly. Focusing on Mr.Fenwick’s chin, he finished the scratch he had started then said in mock disgust, “Mr.Fenwick, please mind your language.” He smiled as his teacher opened his mouth, a red oval in his plum coloured face.

But no sound came out. Craig watched Mr.Fenwick’s eyes open wide in fright as he grabbed at his chest and crumpled to the floor like a discarded rag doll.

Swearing out loud in horror, Craig raced around to the school office which was fortunately on the same floor and only 200 metres away. He ran faster than he ever had before and was completely out of breath by the time he burst through the office door. Painfully extracting the last gasp of air from his lungs, he yelled, “Call an ambulance! I think Mr. Fenwick had a heart attack!”

Once confident he had convinced Mrs. Kelso, the secretary, that he was deadly serious, and having recovered sufficiently from the sprint, Craig sped away. Back to the hallway where his teacher lay motionless on the hard floor. Craig noticed his classmates had gathered around Mr.Fenwick. Weedy Michael saw him coming and called out, “You killed him man. You killed him!”

“No!” Craig yelled back before turning to take flight again. Down the stairs to the back of the building. And out. Across the grassed concourse and through a hole in the fence. A few minutes later he collapsed under a shady tree, exhausted.

An hour later, having heard the ambulance come and leave again, Craig made his way to the Sutherland Hospital which was only 10 minutes walk from school. He was sure they would have taken Mr. Fenwick there.

When he arrived he inquired at reception in the Accident and Emergency section. Yes, a Mr. Fenwick had been brought in and yes, he was all right and yes, Craig could go in and see him.

Dry-mouthed, Craig followed a nurse down a winding corridor. She stopped and pointed out Mr. Fenwick to Craig who mumbled a thank you as she left.

The sight of his teacher lying there with various wires connected to his hairy chest and wearing an oxygen mask caused Craig to cry immediately. Fenwick’s face was as white as the sheet on which he lay.

As Craig shuffled closer, he no longer saw a boring old economics teacher who was fun to tease. Craig saw a man. An ordinary man. Could have been his own father lying there, lucky to be alive. He felt so guilty. If only he could trade places with Mr. Fenwick.

Leaning close to his teacher, Craig whispered, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fenwick. I’m so sorry. I…” Craig ran out of words as remorse swamped him.

“Who’s that? Who’s there?”

Craig was startled by Mr. Fenwick’s voice and briefly considered running away again. He knew that would be wrong but he was frightened about how the old man would react to seeing him there. Just as he began to move away, Fenwick said quietly, “Is that you Craig?”

“Yes, Mr. Fenwick. I … I came to see if you were OK. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry,” sobbed Craig with lowered eyes because he was too ashamed to look at his stricken teacher.

Mr. Fenwick motioned for Craig to come and sit by him on the bed. Craig was confused and ceased his crying out of anticipation. What would he do? Or say?

Fenwick grabbed Craig’s hand and held it for a moment as he smiled faintly and said, “Thanks for coming, Craig.” The two sat there in silence acknowledging the significance of what had happened and realizing they would both leave the hospital changed for the better.

David Cairns is married with two children, and lives on the south coast of New South Wales in Australia. He works part-time as an English language teacher, and also operates a collection service for the Health Department (that’s the “mortgage” job). He writes in his spare time of which he has very little. He has had six short stories accepted for publication so far, and Devolution is his soon to be published first novel.

Mr. Fenwick stared hard at the back wall of the small room. He was standing with his left foot perched on the desk in front of him, absentmindedly pulling at the short hairs on the front of his shin with his right hand while he spoke.

“The term we use for this phenomenon is price inelasticity. On the other hand, if demand for a certain product falls as a result of an increase—”

“Mr.Fenwick I need to go to the toilet,” interjected a weedy, red headed boy named Michael.

“Very well then. Off you go,” replied the teacher without trying to disguise the annoyance in his voice.

Spontaneous conversation broke out following the interruption.

“Quiet please,” ordered Fenwick, then noticing a couple of girls giggling with their heads bowed at a corner desk he added, ‘Christine and Sharon. That means you too.”

The students noticed Mr. Fenwick had begun to rub and wring his hands together in agitation. A sure sign that he was losing his composure.

Fenwick paused before continuing. His train of thought had been derailed and his eyes wandered around the classroom as he searched his memory. Each student felt the burning glare of Mr. Fenwick’s eyes as he examined them, looking for clues in their faces.

“Craig Dyson!” exclaimed Fenwick as he watched his student writing on the desk. Craig looked up quickly to see his teacher standing a metre away from him with his arms folded. He was about to receive one of Mr. Fenwick’s infamous little lectures.

“Due to the fact that I am no longer speaking, Craig, I am wondering why you are still taking notes. Further—”

A quiet titter from behind caused him to stop talking and spin quickly to find its source. Unable to discern which of the bowed heads produced the noise, he issued a loud caution against any further sound and returned to Craig’s lecture.

“Furthermore, I am also curious as to why you are not using paper. Could you enlighten me? Do you have any paper?”

Craig was thinking hard of a good line to use to Mr. Fenwick. He had to save face. All eyes were upon him now and he could feel the fire of embarrassment scorching the back of his neck. Before he could speak Fenwick was at him again.

“I tell you what, Craig,” said Fenwick with his voice rising. “You can stay here after class and clean your desk of all that rubbish and nonsense that you put there.”

“I didn’t do it all, Mr. Fenwick,” protested Craig.

“I don’t care. You will clean it all off during your lunch break and as a reward I will give you some paper on which you will write, ‘I must not deface school property’ five hundred times.”

“That’s a bit much Mr.Fen—”

“How about a thousand times then?”

“Sir, I was only leaving a little note for my girlfriend in the next class. She misses me, you know how it is.”

Craig was pleased to hear the muffled sniggers of his classmates. However, he was disturbed to see that Mr. Fenwick’s face had changed colour. It was purple.

“Get out!” roared Fenwick. “Wait for me in the hall. Just outside the door. Go!”

Deciding against any more wisecracks for the time being, Craig slowly rose from his chair and sauntered out the door.

After watching him leave, Fenwick turned to the rest of the class and began to speak in a slow measured tone as if he was trying very hard not to swear.

“I won’t be long. Be quiet while I’m gone. I won’t tell you again. Be quiet or you can all join your clown of a mate out there for lunch.”

No one said a word. Mr. Fenwick had become very angry in a very short time but that was not unusual for the elderly economics teacher. The students knew him well. They knew the right buttons to press to get him fired up. Likewise they knew when to stop, unlike the court jester, Craig Dyson.

Out in the hall, Fenwick said, “Craig, this is not the first time I’ve caught you writing on the desks. Didn’t you learn anything from last time? Are you thick? Or are you deliberately trying to annoy me and big note yourself in front of your mates?”

Fenwick glared at Craig waiting for an answer. Craig stood staring at the floor wondering if his teacher expected an answer or if these questions were rhetorical. Mr. Fenwick loved rhetorical questions. He scratched his head and began to speak but Fenwick beat him to it.

“God damn it, Craig! At least do me the courtesy of looking at me when I’m talking to you,” he exploded.

Craig’s hand froze on his head as he lifted it slowly. Focusing on Mr.Fenwick’s chin, he finished the scratch he had started then said in mock disgust, “Mr.Fenwick, please mind your language.” He smiled as his teacher opened his mouth, a red oval in his plum coloured face.

But no sound came out. Craig watched Mr.Fenwick’s eyes open wide in fright as he grabbed at his chest and crumpled to the floor like a discarded rag doll.

Swearing out loud in horror, Craig raced around to the school office which was fortunately on the same floor and only 200 metres away. He ran faster than he ever had before and was completely out of breath by the time he burst through the office door. Painfully extracting the last gasp of air from his lungs, he yelled, “Call an ambulance! I think Mr. Fenwick had a heart attack!”

Once confident he had convinced Mrs. Kelso, the secretary, that he was deadly serious, and having recovered sufficiently from the sprint, Craig sped away. Back to the hallway where his teacher lay motionless on the hard floor. Craig noticed his classmates had gathered around Mr.Fenwick. Weedy Michael saw him coming and called out, “You killed him man. You killed him!”

“No!” Craig yelled back before turning to take flight again. Down the stairs to the back of the building. And out. Across the grassed concourse and through a hole in the fence. A few minutes later he collapsed under a shady tree, exhausted.

An hour later, having heard the ambulance come and leave again, Craig made his way to the Sutherland Hospital which was only 10 minutes walk from school. He was sure they would have taken Mr. Fenwick there.

When he arrived he inquired at reception in the Accident and Emergency section. Yes, a Mr. Fenwick had been brought in and yes, he was all right and yes, Craig could go in and see him.

Dry-mouthed, Craig followed a nurse down a winding corridor. She stopped and pointed out Mr. Fenwick to Craig who mumbled a thank you as she left.

The sight of his teacher lying there with various wires connected to his hairy chest and wearing an oxygen mask caused Craig to cry immediately. Fenwick’s face was as white as the sheet on which he lay.

As Craig shuffled closer, he no longer saw a boring old economics teacher who was fun to tease. Craig saw a man. An ordinary man. Could have been his own father lying there, lucky to be alive. He felt so guilty. If only he could trade places with Mr. Fenwick.

Leaning close to his teacher, Craig whispered, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fenwick. I’m so sorry. I…” Craig ran out of words as remorse swamped him.

“Who’s that? Who’s there?”

Craig was startled by Mr. Fenwick’s voice and briefly considered running away again. He knew that would be wrong but he was frightened about how the old man would react to seeing him there. Just as he began to move away, Fenwick said quietly, “Is that you Craig?”

“Yes, Mr. Fenwick. I … I came to see if you were OK. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry,” sobbed Craig with lowered eyes because he was too ashamed to look at his stricken teacher.

Mr. Fenwick motioned for Craig to come and sit by him on the bed. Craig was confused and ceased his crying out of anticipation. What would he do? Or say?

Fenwick grabbed Craig’s hand and held it for a moment as he smiled faintly and said, “Thanks for coming, Craig.” The two sat there in silence acknowledging the significance of what had happened and realizing they would both leave the hospital changed for the better.

David Cairns is married with two children, and lives on the south coast of New South Wales in Australia. He works part-time as an English language teacher, and also operates a collection service for the Health Department (that’s the “mortgage” job). He writes in his spare time of which he has very little. He has had six short stories accepted for publication so far, and Devolution is his soon to be published first novel.

My favourite statement sits prominently in my office. It is from a Harley Davidson ad that appeared in USA Today on May 1, 2008. It reads:

“We Don’t Do Fear: Over the last 105 years in the saddle, we’ve seen wars, conflicts, depression, recession, resistance, and revolutions. We’ve watched a thousand hand-wrenching pundits disappear in our rear-view mirror. But every time, this country (and the world) has come out stronger than before. Because chrome and asphalt put distance between you and whatever the world can throw at you. Freedom and wind outlast hard times, and the rumble of an engine drowns out all the spin on the evening news. If 105 years have proved one thing, it’s that fear sucks and it doesn’t last long.”

Are you drawn into the drama on TV and in the news lately? Are you talking about calamity and loss?

If you are, then you should prepare-because you will attract the negative. It is interesting that this scary, dramatic crisis is all happening during the Halloween time frame. Can you hear the Halloween music? Feel the fear? The bone chilling drama among pundits? The only thing missing is the politicians, Wall Street leaders and newscasters wearing goblin costumes.

Puhleeze . . . You have to look back and see the positive results that have occurred when change happens.

The depression resulted in prosperity beyond what our grandparents could imagine. My mom was a baby during the end of the depression. Looking back we can trace how amazingly prosperous her life and that of her family became. I realize that one of the reasons this occurred was her hope and true knowledge of all her blessings.

On Forbes.com, an article titled “The Gospel of Hope,” by Rich Karlgaard states, “During the worst year of the Great Depression, 1937, a writer named Napoleon Hill picked the positive gospel out of the gutter and lifted the spirits of the country with his bestseller, Think and Grow Rich.” Riches, wrote Hill, were available to anyone who changed his attitude. “Thoughts are things,” Napoleon Hill wrote.

My grandparents, especially my grandfather, always saw the good, had hope and believed. They counted their blessings.

• They had lots of family they kept close.
• They shared what they had, and because of that they had more than most.
• They truly enjoyed what they had which included lots of laughter, songs, joy and love.
• They focused on the blessings. The home they lived in, the furniture they had. They always had a place for someone to put their head-a couch, the floor. Their home was a place of peace.
• They worked hard and were grateful for work. They enjoyed their work and made those around them feel good about the work they were doing.

I never knew mi Abuelo (my grandfather Rafael Echevarria), but I knew of him. Many, many times I could feel him near me. He had nothing; no shoes, no money and he became something. First a post office worker (he practiced and practiced to be a mail sorter). He practiced his English so he could offer outstanding customer service. Eventually he saved his money and bought a restaurant/bar, his dream. He also purchased several apartment buildings and land out in the country. He believed in prosperity, in his ability and his divine right to succeed.

After 9/11, I focused on the pundits and the drama that swirled in the papers. I bought it, hook, line and sinker. My focus wasn’t on what was working, but on what wasn’t working. I paid a price. That wasn’t how my grandfather would look at things.

Today I choose my grandfather’s way. I see the love I have, my husband, my children, my parents and my extended family, as well as my staff. I feel so blessed to have them and to be able to provide for them.

I see the most amazing skies and natural abundance that surround me. As a matter of fact, it blows me away. It is such a gift. I see the ideas that I am given as gifts of prosperity. I love the book ideas, the licensing agreements, the speeches and the bountiful gifts.

I love that during a garage sale on Saturday I gave away two bicycles and a weight and bench set to three different people. The look on their faces, the knowledge that they felt “rich” and deserving made me feel gratified.

This is so different than before, because I’m choosing to think differently. Read my answer to the question “Are you Feisty, Focused and Fearless?” at www.pegine.blogspot.com.

What about you? Do you agree with the ad? Have you made the decision “not to do fear,” to instead go boldly and see the riches around you? Are you looking for new ways to do business? Have you decided that you will, every moment and every day, truly see the abundance, prosperity and joy in your life? Have you decided that you’re not going to play this game, because it’s not fun? Have you declared, “I’m looking for the positive, the good and the fun?” Have you decided that you will be in charge of your economy and that your economy is bursting with wealth? Have you decided that you will see all that you have and look for ways to double it? Are you willing to open yourself to incredible opportunities?

How many times have you heard of people losing their jobs and then, in time, achieved new careers that made them so much happier? How many times have people moved away to a better, richer, happier life?

The lazy way of life is to accept what others say about your life, your economy and your future. The courageous and incredible life is in the knowledge that you deserve more, have more and receive more every single minute of the day.

I may be a Pollyanna, but I have to tell you that it works for me. What is a Pollyanna? A Pollyanna is a person regarded as being foolishly or blindly optimistic. The term Pollyanna evolved from the heroine of the novel Pollyanna by Eleanor Hodgman Porter (1868-1920), an American writer.

Here is a question about the definition of Pollyanna-Pollyannas are people perceived as blindly optimistic, but who is doing the regarding or perceiving? What if the people who are doing the regarding or perceiving only see disaster, complain about life, focus on danger, speak of doom, illness, financial ruin and are depressed? Will they perceive anyone who has a little bit of spirit as a Pollyanna? People whose job it is to see problems will see anyone’s vision filled with problems and issues.

I choose to be a Pollyanna. I like being optimistic and even sometimes being blindly optimistic. It is a healthier perception of life than a reality that is negative. Depressing Dottie’s are just plain . . . depressing.

Are you a Depressing Dottie or a Positive Pollyanna?

Pollyannas don’t do fear. We ride, we succeed, we grow and we receive the rewards of our efforts. Ride hard, ride on and live well!

Which of the two; Depressing Dottie or Positive Pollyanna, will engage your employees, family and friends?
Which of the two; Depressing Dottie or Positive Pollyanna will help you enjoy life and see new opportunities?
Which of the two; Depressing Dottie or Positive Pollyanna will bring business, inspire and attract abundance?

Try-it:

Get Over Yourself and Get Grateful
Stop . . . Drop . . . and Roll . . .

• Stop thinking so much.
• Drop what you are doing and write 10 things you are grateful for. Distribute the gratitude as follows: five about your personal life, three about your leadership roles and two about work.
Roll with the waves. Stuff happens. It isn’t about you; it’s just stuff. How you perceive it and react to it is your stuff. Just roll.

Kick-butt action:

Are you Feisty, Focused and Fearless?
Read the blog at www.pegine.blogspot.com. Then answer the following:

• How were you feisty today?
• What did you do today that demonstrated your focus?
• What fearless action did you do today?

Thought of the Month:

” No man ever achieved worthwhile success who did not, at one time or other, find himself with at least one foot hanging well over the brink of failure. ” – Napoleon Hill

Reprinted from Pegine’s Motivational Ezine for Leaders. Subscribe at www.pegine.com. Pegine motivates leaders in a diverse world. (c)2008



By Alexandra Chasse

Day Minus Three Weeks (July 8, 2008):                                                                                                                      

I just felt a kick. Or was it more like a stretch, a reflection on the supper I finished consuming about an hour ago? “Gee Maman, the pasta sauce was good, but more garlic next time, OK? Oh, and tell Dad I could hear him chewing from here.” Another kick; this one is already opinionated well before its due date. I wonder what he/she will think of the ployes and maple syrup-soaked sausages I’ll ingest in three weeks time at my family reunion?

It’s nearing mid-summer here in Houston, and The Stomach, my three-year-old son and I are all patiently biding the sweltering days indoors (I’m sorry, but you try enjoying a latté outdoors when it’s 32 Celsius before 8 am) until we fly to Bangor, Maine in three weeks. From there we’ll stuff into my sister’s car for the three-hour drive back to Fredericton, New Brunswick, where I’ll attempt to keep log of my vacation in a place that does not, in any way, resemble what daily life looks like here in Houston. Among other things, I’ll likely visit the ice cream shop I used to toss the remainder of my non-profit salary at, I’ll marvel at how places like The Broadway Club in Grand Falls stay open, and I’ll try my best to sum up in written word what it feels like to move through a province I used to find so under-stimulating, I couldn’t wait to leave. I expect to be fascinated with my son’s fascination towards the elements that I once took for granted. Trees! Lakes and streams! Dirt and potato fields! Hills! Pontoon boats! More dirt and fields! At some point, I’m hoping to see develop in him what I may have felt long ago in my early surroundings, long before I started wishing the scenery to change, to evolve, to grow up and get a Starbucks already.

Ironically, I was also pregnant the last time I went to a Chassé Family reunion. This year will mark the four-year anniversary of my Mémére’s passing on that weekend we all gathered at Lac Long in Quebec. That’s when we saw death as the journey of a paddler in a canoe; who glides a ways from the tree line before resting their oar on the gunnels just long enough to turn and wave goodbye to the party on the shore; who then dips back into the dark waters and heads toward a bend in the lake, beyond which there is restive beauty only the Dead can experience. Since that weekend, I have never forgotten how beautiful death might be, and I have felt nothing but fortune to have been there, parmi les miens, to see Mémére off.

This year, I expect our gathering to be diluted in nothing but name only; fewer of us carry the name Chassé every year, as cousins marry and bring more and more tots into the fray. I wonder what JM will think of the food, the matantes and mononcles laughing in French, and all the beer cans.

I can’t wait to see how he comes into these new surroundings.

Heading south from Miramichi City to Fredericton on Route 8, just past the Blackville Village limits sign, you find the Barnettville Road—a dead-end side road, a few kilometres long. It’s the kind of place people sometimes say is, “so far back in the woods, you have to come out to hunt.”

But actually, whether you’re looking for wildlife with guns or cameras, the dead-end of the Barnettville Road is a pretty good place to start. I know because that’s where I grew up, just a few houses away from one of the best fishing, hunting, wildlife and nature guides that the Miramichi has to offer—Kim Jardine. The owner and operator of Jardine Cast & Blast has guided nearly all his life.

“I never liked to work inside,” he says. “I like the outside and the wilderness.”

It’s true. Growing up, I remember summer afternoons at the river where everyone came to swim; a then-teenaged Kim would seem to appear at the edge of the woods like magic, without a sound of warning, after hours of hiking and observing nature. He knew where the snakes nested and could see the practically invisible partridge blending into leaves. If you wanted to get close to a deer, Kim could get you there. If you wanted to catch a fish, Kim could show you how. If you wanted to see a bear, Kim knew where to find them. And he still does. With dozens of years experience behind him, he understands nature and wildlife and knows the region’s forest like the back of his hand.

His dream has always been to own and operate a lodge of his own.

“I always wanted to do it,” he says. “I wish I could’ve done it 20 years ago. I always guided for everyone else.”

Over the years, Kim has managed hunting and fishing lodges for other owners and guided for other lodges, eventually starting his own business called Jardine Guide Services, which he ran for seven years. Finally, last year, Kim’s dream of owning and operating a lodge came true when he and his wife, Faye, opened Jardine Cast & Blast.

Nestled in the woods overlooking the Southwest Miramichi River, the lodge itself is beautiful—a mix of rustic down home charm with wood walls and ceiling, mounted trophy deer on the wall, and antique tables, combined with modern amenities like a full kitchen, full and a half baths, laundry facilities, telephone, fax and satellite tv. It’s large enough to comfortably accommodate six people and easily accessible by car. Full-course meals are included with accommodations and the cooks promise you’ll never be hungry when you leave the table.

“You can come here and have a great time,” Kim says. “It’s a different kind of place. We do everything.”

And he means everything. From the spring and autumn Black Bear hunts to the small game seasons and the deer and moose hunts, Kim and his team of licensed guides are in the woods ready to lead the adventure. There’s nothing quite like coming face-to-face with an 800 pound moose or 300 pound Black Bear. It’s an experience you’re not likely to forget anytime soon.

Fly fishing is, of course, the long standing tradition of lodges on the river. At Jardine Cast & Blast they teach beginner’s fly-casting and offer father and son fishing packages in addition to the usual guided sport fishing. Lately salmon numbers have been increasing in the Miramichi.

“There’s been a big change these past couple of years in fish stocks,” Kim says. “They ran all summer this year.”

He recalls one day this season when he looked out at one of his guides who had hooked a fifteen pound salmon that he was trying to land. All of a sudden a grilse jumped into the boat, whacking the guide on his knees.

“I’d heard about that happening before,” Kim laughs. “But that’s the first one I’ve ever seen.”

While traditional sport fishing and hunting is a big part of what they offer, the Jardine Cast & Blast lodge is open year-round and they hope to tap into the broader tourism market by offering guided nature adventures to individuals and families who just want to get away, relax, and commune with the forest and wildlife.

The way Kim talks about how he’s looking forward to snowshoeing back to the beaver pond everyday to boil the kettle, enjoy a cup of tea and have a say, certainly makes you want to go with him at least once this winter. He makes it sound almost meditative and spiritual, very relaxing, and so much fun. This has got to be the good life people are always talking about!

Kim thinks there’s no life like the one you’ll find exploring our nature and wildlife and he hopes he can continue doing that everyday for a long time to come.

“If I can get the clients, I’ll never the Miramichi,” he says.

To find out more about Jardine Cast & Blast or to see more pictures visit their website at www.jardinecastandblast.com.

By Blake Lindsay

I soon discovered that life as a disc jockey was really exciting, but it had a major drawback. Tenures of being on the radio did not usually last for more than three years at one place. I needed something more stable and more permanent where I could work full-time at one job and then fill in my extra time with radio work. Bank of America came to my rescue.                                         

Recruiters from Bank of America were listening to me speak at a meeting where I had stated a desire to work in customer service. A couple of weeks later I was contacted. I completed several initial interviews and passed the bank’s required written assessment.

No other blind people were employed in the call center of the bank, but I had convinced them to open up a career door for me. The bank and its employees assisted me in providing all of the necessary adaptive technology. We worked well together. I had superior trainers who were patient and I gave them 100 percent of my efforts.

Prior to working at the call center, I had always thought of myself as a wonderful listener. Working at the call center provided me with a wake-up call that my listening was not all that great. However, I learned from working in customer service how to keenly listen to what people were really saying.

This job demanded personal mastery of the art on how to listen intently. At the bank, I learned how to maintain focus on conversation and to consider the inconvenience that someone other than myself was experiencing. I was certainly glad when I could resolve a customer-related problem and could often hear the relief come right through the telephone. Our call center employed 500 people, yet I managed to maintain my productivity in the top 15 percent status for five out of seven years.

I eventually earned the responsibility of training associates, where I discovered my effectiveness in coaching sighted people. My unique challenge of being blind accelerated the learning curve. The people I coached had not worked with a blind person before and they all were quite attentive. I used to tell them, “If Blind Blake can do this, so can you. Don’t you think?” It put many people at ease and gave them a boost of confidence.

I wish everyone had the opportunity to work in customer service for at least a year. It is a true relationship enhancer. My 10-year tenure with the occupation assisted me in becoming an improved compromiser in working and personal relationships.

*Excerpted from Blake’s book, Out of Sight Living.

Blake Lindsay lives in Texas, with his wife Jennifer. He is the host for Zig Ziglar’s weekly Inspire Podcast on ziglar.com. In addition, Blake produces voice-overs, audio productions for corporate websites, commercials, and station branding through his company Blazin’ Blake Productions. He is also available for speaking engagements in churches, schools, service organizations, and conferences. www.blazinblake.com 

Evangeline Savoy and Norman McLenaghan were presented with a corsage and boutonnier

Playing road hockey brought back childhood memories.

Victorian Strawberry, Heart & Rose Tea Party

Other tables were set up under a large canopy with desserts and tea for Moms and Dads. The menu was all strawberry recipes: scotch cakes in the shape of hearts and teapots, chocolate dipped strawberries, florets, strawberry loaves, strawberry muffins and three large Ponchatoula strawberry summertime cakes (recipe from a Louisiana cookbook). Parlour maids and Moms served the little ladies strawberry shortcakes and trays of goodies.

Erica LeBlanc enjoys face painting Saturday night at the reunion.

Joan Cripps is a “Domestic Engineer” living in Chatham, NB, who loves to entertain and write. She is the founder of the Purple Hat Ladies Tea Society, a group she formed in 2001.

By Adam Bowie

Cowboy hats covered bald spots. Western-style shirts flapped in the night breeze. Men wearing bandanas and leather vests sipped on beer bottles and leaned against four-by-fours with lift-kits. Women with large hair threw their heads back in laughter at the jokes of  men that seemed too tall for their jeans. Cigarettes burned in nearly everyone’s hands in the crowd of people situated in front of the main door to the bar. The bouncers dragged a man out the front door who had quenched his every thirst. The man wasn’t struggling with their decision; it was as if he agreed that it was time for him to go and he welcomed assistance. Tom and I entered The Copperhead Road Pub for the first time.

A dull roar of conversations hummed throughout the bar. The band wasn’t playing but we knew it was too early for a band to stop playing in a bar like this. They must be on break. Bartenders opened beer bottles and gave out hugs to regular customers. Tom and I grabbed a couple of beers, but we got shorted hug-wise. We settled on a table off to the side of the main dance floor.

Eventually, The Hardcore Troubadours stood up and moved towards the stage. We watched as the lead singer walked all over the set-list they had taped to the floor in his black cowboy boots. The sheet bent and crumpled in a way that made me realize he forgot it was there. They looked drunk. “Good for them,” I thought as I watched the waitress deliver a tray of shooters to the band before they even strummed a chord. As they prepared to start their first song, a man sitting at the bar on a tall barstool fell backwards landing flat on his back. The stool thudded loudly and people jumped. The man appeared to be knocked cold and the lead singer said, “Apparently, some people like to lay on the floor around here. That’s alright with us. Is that you, Bill? Somebody help Bill up . . .” One of the bouncers and another man each grabbed an arm and they hoisted Bill back up to his feet, brushing off his back and leading him down the hall to the restroom to freshen up.

They opened with Johnny Cash’s “Get Rhythm.” They would play Waylon Jennings, George Jones, and Johnny Paycheck songs before the night was over. A little man with a comb-over and Velcro sneakers waltzed with his woman to every slow number. They set their drinks on our table and danced in the limited space next to us. As the song ended, the man dipped his lady climactically. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and banged her back roughly against our table. The drummer performed a drum solo and three girls got up and danced. I’d never seen a person dance to a drum solo before. It was . . . well, hard. Hard to understand, hard to watch, hard to believe really. A woman stood up on her table and began dancing in a jerky, contorted manner. Her hair was cropped close to her head and she wore ill-fitting clothes. But I liked her attitude. She was having fun. I can respect that.

I was in my element. Bars like this one; people like these people—I was made to recognize the duality of it all. There is a trueness inherent in the rural areas of this country that supersedes any unruly behaviour. This duality is recognized by the lucky few that can wear cowboy hats or pinstripes. I was born middle-class and blue-collared, and I have a feeling I’ll always be that way. It’s a good feeling.

When I was 10 years old and in the fourth grade, I tried out for the elementary school’s Talent Show. My sister Julie and I had  planned a skit—we were trying to do a “Who’s on First” kind of thing but our comedic timing wasn’t the best—we kept forgetting the who, what and where. The skit didn’t impress the panel of four teachers who were deciding who would be in the show. One of the teachers, Mrs. Hudson, asked me later if I would be willing to recite a poem for the show, Moo Cow Moo. Because she singled me out and made me feel so important, most especially because she was my favourite teacher of all time, I said yes. And I really was delighted to do it!

The poem she wanted me to recite had to be done with a lisp. She sewed a baby doll dress that showed the matching ruffled panties. She made a huge bonnet with a stiff cloth-covered cardboard brim. She had me carry a huge multi-coloured lollipop that was the size of my head. When I recited the poem I was supposed to stop between verses and lick the lollipop, from bottom to top, including exaggerated head bobbing.

Do you know how hard that is to do when your mouth is dry as dust from stage fright? And I never thought to just PRETEND to lick it.

I was excited and so nervous the night of the show. My mother drove while I practiced out loud all the way there. My mother told me how wonderful my acting ability was as I head-bobbed and mooed. Mrs. Hudson was waiting. I won! First place. The parents and teachers loved it. I got a standing ovation. Mrs. Hudson asked that I leave the costume with her. I should have suspected then that I would be using the costume again. I was so proud of myself … until I went to school that Monday.

From the time I got on the bus and was greeted with “Hey, Moo Cow Moo,” until the final yells from the school bus windows as I was dropped off that afternoon, everywhere I went, everyone said something about it. At first I was proud, pleased. Then I gradually realized that although the adults were genuinely congratulating me, most of the kids were mockingly quoting my poem in the same singsong voice I had used when reciting it! I was mortified.

Then, Mrs. Hudson asked that I recite the poem in full costume in front of the entire school at that Friday’s assembly. By that time I had a full week of teasing and mockery. But because I didn’t know how to tell her what I was feeling and I desperately didn’t want her to be disappointed in me, I had no choice. I did it. With nervous gusto. With extra swishes of my ruffled butt as I climbed the steps to the stage. With extra licks of the huge lollipop. I even mooed a little louder than necessary.

Ok, a lot louder than necessary!

That was followed by 35 years of cringing every time I thought of that day—the stares, the snickers, the mocking whispers as I hurried back to my seat in that HUGE, echoing auditorium. I only remembered the first two lines of that poem. I purposely forgot the rest. Whenever I talked about childhood memories that were the most embarrassing, that one came to mind and I would tell the story and recreate the ambiance by reciting those first two lines. Always making fun of myself, but secretly still feeling the bite of humiliation.

One day recently I was telling a friend, Pa, about the poem. We were sitting in front of our computers at work. I was doing the old it-was-funny-but-very-embarrassing routine. I recited the first two lines. When I was done with my pretend-to-lick-the-lollipop pantomime, she recited the next two lines in the first verse! I was shocked! While I was making fun of myself she had quickly looked the poem up online. There it was—the full version.

After 35 years I reread the poem that had caused me so much embarrassment. I rethought the days following the talent show. I remembered the congratulations and praise during that week. The teasing that I may have mistook as all malicious mockery. The pleasure of being singled out by a teacher I loved. The ability to memorize and recite such a long poem at that age, in front of hundreds of schoolmates and teachers. The trust that Mrs. Hudson had in me to do it. The time it must have taken her to sew the costume and to find that enormous lollipop. The pride she must have felt in my recitation of her choice of poetry. And my heart aches for the little girl that didn’t appreciate the faith of a teacher. And for the years of embarrassment that stemmed from perception versus reality. And most of all, that I didn’t thank her for giving me the opportunity to shine for a few minutes.

Debra Cranford is a Registered Respiratory Therapist in Fresno, California, who works with acutely ill pediatric patients in a children’s hospital, and a mother to three sons. Much of Debra’s childhood was spent in and out of foster care.