Somehow I have become middle-aged and find myself blessed with a semi-retired lifestyle that allows me--sometimes with my husband and often on my own--to travel by car throughout Canada. (It would be perilously close to perfect if I could convince said husband to rent an RV trailer so we wouldn't have to stay in quasi-identical, antibacterial-scented motel rooms, scrambling for the free breakfast of squashed Danish and Fruit Loops at the end. But that is another blog.)
What is striking in my recent travels is the proliferation of expensive, creatively designed signage announcing whatever city, town or region I am passing through. Clearly they are meant to beckon us off the major thoroughfare--not so much to eat and sleep--but to invest in their dream for an economically viable downtown core. Browse through the antique boutiques, love the new waterfront, maybe buy a condo...
I think "$30,000" every time I pass another gorgeous edifice: Bracebridge The Heart of Muskoka; Huntsville Touch the Past, Embrace the Future; Gravenhurst wins for the most gorgeous sign to say nothing.
I pulled the $30,000 figure out of thin air as what it cost taxpayers to erect the thing. This is just a guess. It could easily be more what with excavation costs in the Canadian Shield and the propensity of government projects to go above average in cost.
As I drifted around Hwys. 11 and 400 and 401, I assumed it was an Ontario endeavour. However an excursion to the east cost revealed it is a more widespread phenomenon so perhaps it is a federal initiative. No matter, the result seems to be universal.
Our small town of 3200 is the perfect example. It has received provincial government grants in recent years that allowed it to hire an economic development officer for one year. There may be a small budget attached for programs to help us develop economically or the municipal taxpayer may foot the bill. I don't know.
There's no doubt that we need to revitalize our downtown but I can't help think that our governors are looking in all the wrong places. Instead of looking to the highways and bi-ways, hoping to attract new businesses and investment, maybe we should all be encouraging new, young innovators and entrepreneurs in our midst to set up shop instead of heading to the Oil Sands of Alberta. I'm just saying.
Our little downtown is no different than the cores of "Beautiful Barrie", Orillia, Kingston, Windsor and on and on. Sadly, our downtown retailers have been steamrolled by the Wal-marts and Costcos. Few and far between are the Mom-and-Pops where you can get a shoe resoled, a watch repaired or eat a homemade soup and muffin. Most technicians and tradesmen work out of their homes with a cell phone. No need for retail space because who can compete with Home Depot on plumbing or electrical supplies?
For years and years and years we were known as Powassan, The Friendly Town. Then we got an economic development officer and it was apparently glaringly obvious that we needed a new logo and new signage out on the highway. After significant expense our new logo is an anemic pale blue on white "Powassan, The Heart of Good Living". Unmemorable in the extreme. And, as someone in North Bay asked me recently, "Aren't you friendly any more?"
And I think North Bay got ripped off as bad as we did--only at more expense. Its new sign says, wait for it, "North Bay". Not "Welcome" or "Enjoy Your Stay" or "Come On In". For $30,000--or whatever the number is--you would think they would get some more words or flowers or waving grass. Nothing. The city that used to be "The Gateway to the North" is now a seeming non-entity; neither a destination nor jumping off point for the great expanse of Northern Ontario.
Which begs the question, Did the gateway move? Has an economic development professional deemed Severn River perhaps the gateway to the north? Or Cookstown? I'll keep my eyes peeled on my next trip.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
Defending the Turf
I knew that a line had been crossed the day my husband suggested I could more efficiently organize the pots and pans. They do reside in the kitchen after all, a heretofore unbreached somewhat-oasis where I have always been left to my own devices--at least until meal time when the expectation is palpable that a repast involving meat and potatoes should be materializing soon.
My husband--God, may she bless him--means well. His skill as a problem-solver has served him well as a small-town businessman over 30-plus years. His talent to take charge and make hard decisions earned him the respect of his competitors and the loyalty of staff. His is the unmistakable Type A personality that emerges in difficult situations, that garners envy, if not necessarily love.
I have loved him, though, through his stresses and abrasiveness and hyperactivity because when he came home at the end of the work day, he did not want to talk about his day. Perhaps it weighed heavy on his mind but it was always shut into a separate compartment away from me and the kids and the house.
At home, I was pretty much on my own due to his long work days and his commitment to team sports and community volunteerism. I learned to fend for myself, call a plumber, stickhandle through parent-teacher interviews, deal with contractors, feed everyone and, yes, keep the pots and pans organized. So it was with not a small amount of trepidation that I watched as he sold his business a couple of years ago and commenced to work part-time.
For a long time, he seemed to be sleeping in a chair whenever I came into the house. How could anyone take three naps a day and still sleep at night I wondered. I overheard him telling everyone who asked that he was enjoying his semi-retirement because he no longer had to think about the business when he came home.
It seemed to me that he would need something substantial to think about in its place. I encouraged him to join the library. He built shelves. Mostly very high shelves that I cannot reach. Anyway, we now have enough shelves.
He cleaned the garage, a lot, and became a little obsessed with vermin--mice, squirrels, raccoons, skunks--that might invade his shed. He started driving REALLY slowly so that he could safely gawk around on his trips into town. I had to tell him he needed to at least drive the speed limit if he wanted me to be in the vehicle with him.
But all these proclivities did not really affect my sphere of influence. I carried on as usual, trying to ignore the snoring coming from the recliner. Until his comment the other day about how I should set up the kitchen.
The potential for a turf war is a little bizarre in that I have been begging him for years to take over some of the cooking. To no avail. I contend that the occasional barbecued burger does not constitute sharing the culinary duties. So if I thought letting him organize the tools would lead to an urge to use them, I would happily back out of the kitchen. Maybe right in to the recliner.
Sadly, in my heart, I recognize this latest project as just another iteration of The Boss. He has always been in charge and underlings have always done his bidding. Trouble is...well, everyone knows the trouble spot here. Whether my husband, highly intelligent in oh so many areas, will ever figure this out is debatable.
I calmly looked at him over the counter as I stood up after placing a skillet under the oven-- exactly where it has been for all of our married life and will continue to be--and suggested that some things were better left unorganized.
And some lines should never be crossed.
My husband--God, may she bless him--means well. His skill as a problem-solver has served him well as a small-town businessman over 30-plus years. His talent to take charge and make hard decisions earned him the respect of his competitors and the loyalty of staff. His is the unmistakable Type A personality that emerges in difficult situations, that garners envy, if not necessarily love.
I have loved him, though, through his stresses and abrasiveness and hyperactivity because when he came home at the end of the work day, he did not want to talk about his day. Perhaps it weighed heavy on his mind but it was always shut into a separate compartment away from me and the kids and the house.
At home, I was pretty much on my own due to his long work days and his commitment to team sports and community volunteerism. I learned to fend for myself, call a plumber, stickhandle through parent-teacher interviews, deal with contractors, feed everyone and, yes, keep the pots and pans organized. So it was with not a small amount of trepidation that I watched as he sold his business a couple of years ago and commenced to work part-time.
For a long time, he seemed to be sleeping in a chair whenever I came into the house. How could anyone take three naps a day and still sleep at night I wondered. I overheard him telling everyone who asked that he was enjoying his semi-retirement because he no longer had to think about the business when he came home.
It seemed to me that he would need something substantial to think about in its place. I encouraged him to join the library. He built shelves. Mostly very high shelves that I cannot reach. Anyway, we now have enough shelves.
He cleaned the garage, a lot, and became a little obsessed with vermin--mice, squirrels, raccoons, skunks--that might invade his shed. He started driving REALLY slowly so that he could safely gawk around on his trips into town. I had to tell him he needed to at least drive the speed limit if he wanted me to be in the vehicle with him.
But all these proclivities did not really affect my sphere of influence. I carried on as usual, trying to ignore the snoring coming from the recliner. Until his comment the other day about how I should set up the kitchen.
The potential for a turf war is a little bizarre in that I have been begging him for years to take over some of the cooking. To no avail. I contend that the occasional barbecued burger does not constitute sharing the culinary duties. So if I thought letting him organize the tools would lead to an urge to use them, I would happily back out of the kitchen. Maybe right in to the recliner.
Sadly, in my heart, I recognize this latest project as just another iteration of The Boss. He has always been in charge and underlings have always done his bidding. Trouble is...well, everyone knows the trouble spot here. Whether my husband, highly intelligent in oh so many areas, will ever figure this out is debatable.
I calmly looked at him over the counter as I stood up after placing a skillet under the oven-- exactly where it has been for all of our married life and will continue to be--and suggested that some things were better left unorganized.
And some lines should never be crossed.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Uneventful
There's nothing quite like the thrill ... wait for it ... of looking at my calendar and seeing blank squares. I can't quite remember when my social schedule started to be so crowded; nor why. It just happened gradually, I guess, and my life became a struggle to stay ahead of the RSVPs, card purchases, gift registries and, occasionally, flights to book.
"Lucky you", you may be thinking. And I am. I have myriad friends and a wide and varied extended family network. My husband too comes from a large family so his occasions are mine and vice versa (except I do ALL the RSVPing and card-buying and register-checking for both of us). In addition, he has taken on a significant volunteer position which sometimes requires me to wear a long dress and heels. (I do draw the line at pantyhose in the summer.)
This summer has been a hot one. Oh so glorious when one is floating off the dock at the cottage. Agonizingly uncomfortable in the full flush of another hot flash in the centre of a crowd. When all one can think about is stripping off and being in the water again.
So when I studied the calendar last Sunday I was amazed to see nothing. I double-checked with my husband. Had we forgotten to write in a week's stuff? Nope. I began to daydream about all kinds of things--including just sitting on the deck daydreaming. Oh the books. The crossword puzzles. Maybe I would get out the jigsaw puzzle I had received for Christmas. I would have time to play the piano and read old newspapers. There was a chance I would get caught up on my online games and reply to all my email.
If I get really lucky it might be rainy and then I will unguiltily unwrap the second season of Downton Abbey and slide it in. There will be popcorn and, possibly, knitting. And definitely napping.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Still Reeling
Still Reeling
It was with great sadness that I and thousands of other fans learned two weeks ago that Nora Ephron had died. She was relatively young at 71--as in "I'm in my fifties and that's not so far away for me"--and still writing funny tidbits that were spot on.
Selfishly, one of my first thoughts was now I'll never get to meet her. I'll never get to show her my work and tell her how much of an inspiration she has been over the years.
The world is a slightly sadder place without her bon mots rippling off the pages. No more will I laugh into the night by flashlight trying to not wake my husband. Once, when he wanted to know what I was snickering over, I handed him her book between giggles. He read the chosen hilarious episode and commented, "Hmmph". That was it. Not even a smirk. I still don't know if her work is strictly gender specific or if my husband's sense of humour is less developed than even I could have thought possible. I do know that, should I be lucky enough to come across some new material by her in the future , I will laugh heartily into the night on my side of the bed.
I kind of regret that I was such an endorsing fan, passing on her books and pressing them breathlessly into the hands of any who I thought would enjoy her work. When I rooted through the bookshelves of my life the other day, I discovered to my dismay that I no longer own a single one of her works--although I know of at least three that I owned at one time.
I am going to think of them as taking on a life of their own, moving through the read-a-sphere, spreading joy and laughter--late into the night.
I will miss you Nora.
Selfishly, one of my first thoughts was now I'll never get to meet her. I'll never get to show her my work and tell her how much of an inspiration she has been over the years.
The world is a slightly sadder place without her bon mots rippling off the pages. No more will I laugh into the night by flashlight trying to not wake my husband. Once, when he wanted to know what I was snickering over, I handed him her book between giggles. He read the chosen hilarious episode and commented, "Hmmph". That was it. Not even a smirk. I still don't know if her work is strictly gender specific or if my husband's sense of humour is less developed than even I could have thought possible. I do know that, should I be lucky enough to come across some new material by her in the future , I will laugh heartily into the night on my side of the bed.
I kind of regret that I was such an endorsing fan, passing on her books and pressing them breathlessly into the hands of any who I thought would enjoy her work. When I rooted through the bookshelves of my life the other day, I discovered to my dismay that I no longer own a single one of her works--although I know of at least three that I owned at one time.
I am going to think of them as taking on a life of their own, moving through the read-a-sphere, spreading joy and laughter--late into the night.
I will miss you Nora.
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