Posted on September 12, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Missing car keys? Rubbish, I say

 

It’s not that easy being green Having to spend each day the color of the leaves When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow, or gold Or something much more colorful like that

It’s Not Easy Being Green – Kermit the Frog

People have been recycling for centuries. I grew up in a big family and only the oldest boy or girl got something new to wear.  With eight children in the house, the rest of us got hand me downs … saving the environment one T-shirt at a time.  Except that it was born of economic necessity and back then most things were used over and over until they wore out.  There are many other examples over the centuries of how people have re-used or repurposed household items.

But over the past 25 years or so, recycling has become the centrepiece of waste management programs in virtually every town and city in the developed world. We have been trained to put our food scraps in the composter and to sort all of the other waste.  In our house, like most, we have separate bins for paper products, another for plastics and a third for money backs.  And one for containers that the food bank can use.  Not to mention the indoor and outdoor compost receptacles.  And yes, we even have an old fashioned garbage can for that handful of items that don’t neatly fit into any other category

I should be a pro at this but I recently found out that, despite my best efforts, I had allocated an item in the wrong place. To err is human, to forgive, divine.

Back in the days when I was on Town Council, I was the chair of the recycling committee. I was a greenhorn, for sure.  Several of us toured the province visiting communities who had been doing this for quite some time.  No point in reinventing the wheel.  Of course, our children were getting educated at school about the evils of solid waste dumpsites and were quick to point out transgressions.

If there is one basic law of recycling, it is that the rules are the rules except when they’re not. Just when you have finally figured out where everything should go, when you are a veritable Ph. D in “reduce, reuse and recycle,” you discover an exception that everybody knows about except you.

My wife was away a few weeks ago and I decided to treat myself to some take out, which came in a Styrofoam container. It had the #4 recycling logo on the back.  I dutifully rinsed it in warm water at the conclusion of my meal and fired it in with the plastics.  Styrofoam is not something that enters our house often.

The missus arrived home from a weekend of babysitting, exhausted. In a matter of minutes she had somehow misplaced her car keys.  It took me all of five minutes to discover them, where else, but in the composter.  They had been tossed in there, along with an apple core and a banana peel, as she unloaded the car.  We had a good chuckle and went to bed.

Like one of the Seven Dwarfs, I set out for work on Monday morning, whistling as I went.

When I arrived home for lunch, it was obvious that the garbage police had been to the house. The Styrofoam container had magically transplanted itself from the plastic bin to the kitchen table.  Yogic flying was my first guess.  Emblazoned on the cover of the container was the following: “Styrofoam. Not Recyclable! No! No! No!” A copy of the Eastern Solid Waste Management program rules lay beside it with the words “Styrofoam is always garbage” highlighted in yellow.  There was a P.S. on the side of the packaging: “Do not write a story about this.”

The following text message was sent from yours truly to the recycling policewoman. “Ahem, I got your subtle recycling reminder – you’ll find your keys in the composter.”

I received her reply: “Even Steven!”

It’s really not that easy being green.

 

 

Posted on September 11, 2014 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

X marks the spot

 

 

Last weekend, I was out for a stroll and ended up spending a pleasant hour in the bleachers at Oland Stadium. I watched, with considerable interest, a group of female athletes playing field hockey. It used to be a university sport but I am told that they are now a “club” but can still hold their own at the university level.

My eye caught the big “X” in the middle of the field, with the backdrop being the two newest dorms on campus. Calling them a dorm is both a misnomer and an insult. They are palatial with every modern convenience possible. I had a chance to do a quick tour this summer and they are very impressive… more like a hotel than the cramped quarters that were the norm way back when.

Last year around this time, I wrote a story about St.F.X. students and their importance to the local economy. Go to the search box on my home page and type in the words “ Putting the Ant in Antigonish.”

Keep your eyes peeled for an upcoming contest. I am going to be looking for funny dieting stories. I will be accepting submissions by e-mail or private messaging on Facebook ( to protect your identity! ). Every one that sends me a story will be entered in a draw for 2 pairs of tickets to the upcoming “Week45 Express” road show on October 26^th. in Heatherton. Bring on the stories!

I have a great new story but I’m not sure if it is going to see the light of day, as it involves my lovely bride. The story is about recycling which , in and of itself, is a pretty benign subject. However, something funny happened the other day when Betty arrived home from a weekend of babysitting. Mothers know what total exhaustion looks and feels like. Anyway, her car keys went missing from the time she exited the car until she reached the kitchen. Where they ended up will surprise you.

Speaking of fatigue, we were sharing tales of exhaustion at the office the other day. One staff member confessed that she picked up one of her newborns in the dark of the night. She was bleary eyed. Only when she got out in the hall did she realize that she was holding the child upside down.

Over the next few weeks I plan to publish my first trilogy. “Milling Around” captures my life as a worker in a sawmill back in the 70’s.

And coming up next week, my Casket story ( it will be on my website on Wednesday ) will profile the “Waffle Wagon” that most of us see on a daily basis parked out behind the Post Office and at the Farmer’s Market on the weekend. I spent a delightful hour with the owners , Nicole and Alex recently and we talked about their business and their expansion plan. If I continue to eat their spectacular waffles, I will be working on my own expansion plan. Nicole assured me that I could keep my tummy in check by taking belly dancing lessons from her. That is NOT a pretty visual. The town is blessed with many young entrepreneurs and they deserve our support.

Have a great weekend.

Posted on September 9, 2014 under Storytelling with 3 comments

Fare thee well love

 

 

We all realize that credit cards are a necessary evil.  There may be close to a billion and a half credit cards in use in North America.  It is almost impossible these days to book a hotel or a flight without using a card.  And it is also imperative to have a card in a crisis situation, like an unexpected 50% sale at someone’s favorite department store.

The good news is that, in all likelihood, credit cards will be obsolete by the year 2024.  The bad news is that the last time I checked it was still 2014, so plastic will still be the predominant method to transact business for a few years yet.

Like many prudent Canadians, we are trying to get things in order as we head into retirement.  We are downsizing in order to simplify our lives.  We share one car and, if it was possible, we would only carry one credit card.  While it is tempting to hold onto a card that offers a generous credit limit, we know that this is good for the health of financial institutions and not necessarily our fiscal well-being.

A couple of months ago we decided to cancel one of our cards that hadn’t had a good workout in a while.  The account was in my name and in this age of security and privacy consciousness I was the only one who could cancel it.  The person at the call centre was very disappointed to lose a “valued client” like me.  They only value you when you don’t pay off your balances on a monthly basis.  She assured me that the account had been closed.

Two months later I received a surprise in the mail.  It wasn’t quite a lottery win or a free cruise (my, how the cruises are piling up), but I was startled to learn that the credit card company actually owed me money; 30 cents, to be exact.   I was about to toss the statement in the shredder but my better half strongly suggested (!) that I once again place a call and have the matter laid to rest once and for all.  If not, she opined, I would continue to receive statements, wasting precious trees in the process.

It was a Friday morning.  Everyone loves Friday so what better way to start TGIF than taking care of a small, menacing chore.  I had my statement handy and dialed the 1-800 number.  I played the typical game of charades and dutifully pressed button after button waiting to speak to someone who had a pulse.  I was a bit startled when all of the instructions were delivered in French. With apologies to my Acadian friends in Pomquet, Isle Madame and Cheticamp, I wasn’t quite up to dealing with a long winded explanation of options, en francais.

As my ire grew, I finally heard an English voice:” For English, press 1”.  I am not normally tempted to strangle a phone.

The living, breathing specimen I ended up talking to was a pleasant enough sort.  He started the interrogation in the usual manner. “What is your name? What is your date of birth?” Do you have your credit card with you?”  “Well no” I replied, “I cut it up two months ago when you allegedly closed my account”.  And then, the questions abruptly stopped.  I had failed the security test.  Not only that, there was nothing he could do because the account was no longer active.  Duh.  We were at an impasse and I had to get to work.  To add injury to insult, he told me that I would have to deal with a higher authority in the “security division” which would open in 59 minutes.  It’s a good thing he doesn’t understand Gaelic.

Later in the day, I called and spoke to a helpful agent who put the matter to bed immediately.  And I learned that it could have been handled just as easily earlier that morning.

I can hardly wait for the day that credit cards become a thing of the past.  I dream of the time when I will be able to stand in the bank and simply shout at the top of my lungs, “Give me fifty bucks,” and out the money will come.  Or wave my hand at the grocery clerk to have my purchases paid for, bagged and delivered by the time I get home.

Just like it used to be when cash was king.