Where Ye To?

By Jennifer Quist

The Canadian dialect of English... seems roughly to be the result of applying British syntax to an American vocabulary.
~Lister Sinclair

I sat with my little family in a roadside restaurant within view of a towering metal statue bent and welded into the form of an enormous corn stalk. We were on the lower edge of Canada's Great Plains, in southern Alberta. I leaned forward in my seat, toward my beautiful little son, and started chattering to him in baby talk.

"You some cute," I told him in my happiest mommy voice.

That was when the woman from the table next to ours caught my eye, smiled, and politely asked if I was originally from the east coast. It took a moment for me to figure out why a stranger would ask me such a thing. She wasn't exactly wrong about me. But I certainly didn't recognize her from anywhere and I hadn't lived in the east since I was a teenager. And I wasn't exactly sitting there in rural Alberta wrapped in the Nova Scotia flag.

Then I knew what had given me away. It was my choice of adjective for my baby. For most people on this side of Canadian Shield, the word "some" is not used as a superlative. Those of us who do use words like "some" and "right" where most English speakers would use "really" or "very" usually have some connection to Atlantic Canada.

In the new world mobility of the twenty-first century, it's not uncommon to hear Canada's regional accents spoken in every quarter of the country. And they're not just collecting in the big metropolitan areas like Toronto, Vancouver, and Calgary. Canada's northern boomtowns -- like Fort McMurray and Yellowknife -- are also great places to learn about the dozens of accents and dialects that make up Canadian speech.

Personally, I think this little diaspora of accents is fantastic. And I was always touched every time the nice Newfoundlander ladies who work at the grocery stores in Fort McMurray, Alberta, addressed me as "my love" while they totalled up my order.

Maybe I like this outpouring of regional accents because my own regional identity is fairly muddled. When I was a child in my parents' home, my dad worked for the federal government. Every promotion meant a move. In all, I attended eleven different schools before graduating from high school. Some were on the west coast, others on the east, and many were in between. On bad days, I feel like nowhere in Canada is my home. And on good days, I feel like everywhere in Canada is my home.

Despite the Maritime accent that seems to have crept into my baby talk, I wasn't born in the east. I arrived there as a kid when I was still linguistically pliable and, within one summer, I had made the Nova Scotian accent my own. My western Canadian born siblings and I were all merrily pronouncing "out" like "oat" and "pants" like "pay-ants" while my parents shook their heads and wondered what was going on.

Of course, it's important to recognize that there is no single, monolithic Atlantic Canadian accent. It doesn't take a very practiced ear to hear the clear differences between accents from places like Newfoundland, Cape Breton, the Miramichi, North Preston, and Prince Edward Island. There is even a little influence from New England accents that sneak over the border, mostly through American network television affiliates, to infiltrate Maritime speech.


In my late teen years, my family moved west again. We arrived in Alberta with all the high vocal energy of our Maritime accents -- talking quickly and loudly. Even though we had lived here as small children, it was like we were hearing the western Canadian accent for the first time. To us, it sounded long and drawly -- almost American. People were wearing cowboy boots and hats on a daily basis, not just on Halloween. And all the guys who would have been called "buddy" back east were known as "dude" instead.

The differences in my accent were obvious in my high school French classes too. I hadn't known it before our move west, but I had been taught to speak French with an Acadian accent. It was nothing like the throaty Continental chit-chat of my Alberta French teachers.

Once I left my parents' home, my days of annual moves were over. I settled down with my lifelong Albertan husband and hardly noticed my manner of speech being assimilated back into a western accent. It's now my natural speaking voice -- most of the time. But as soon as I say hello to an Atlantic Canadian, my old accent comes rushing back. All of a sudden, I'm calling inanimate objects "she" and making sure to inhale instead of exhale when I say "yeah." And for a little while, it's as if the last twenty years -- and those five thousand kilometres -- didn't matter at all.

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Never Miss a Sunset

By Nancy Loucks-McSloy

The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.

~Henry Miller

Growing up with the golden sands of Sauble Beach at my doorstep, I realize now how rich we really were. Fondly referred to as the "Daytona of Canada," Sauble Beach, Ontario is famous for its eleven kilometres of pure, golden, sugary sand, embracing the warm, clean waters of Lake Huron. When I visited my relatives in the "city," I envied their beautiful houses, their stylish clothes and even the cookies that came out of a bag instead of the oven! As I take a nostalgic look at the past I now know that what we had money could not buy.

We lived on a modest farm on Silver Lake Road, just a mile or so from "the beach." My parents had grown up during the Depression, so frugality was a way of life. On the other hand they were so generous and giving. My dad would grow a huge garden to feed us throughout the winter and there was always enough for the "city" relatives to come and visit and take fresh vegetables home.

We seldom went out for a fancy dinner or to a movie, but one thing that we did from the time the weather turned nice in the spring until the snow came and the lake froze over was to go to the beach. My father always said, "Never miss a sunset." In the early spring we would sit at the beach, watching the icebergs as they moved in and out, and of course watching for that beautiful sunset. As spring turned into summer, we would go to the beach and swim until it was time to watch the sunset. Summer would turn to autumn, when the evenings were chilly and the water would begin to get rough. As we watched the waves, listening to them hit the shore, we would wait for those last sunsets of the season, knowing that soon it would be winter and we would be waiting for spring to once again watch the sunset over the lake.

I grew up, married and moved away from the beauty of the lake and its breathtaking sunset. My parents retired and looked forward to summer when our children would spend summer holidays with them. Our children are now grown with children of their own, but they still talk about the days when Grandma and Grandpa would take them to the beach to swim and how Grandpa always said, "Never miss a sunset."

During his golden years, Dad would spend his time in the spring puttering around, making maple syrup and preparing to plant his garden. He would come back from the sugar bush in time for dinner and to take that short drive to watch the sunset. During the summer, he would work in his garden, or relax under the beautiful twin maple trees in the side yard. Evening would come and he would say to Mom, "We better go for an ice cream cone and eat it while we watch the sunset." Autumn was no exception. He still took that short jaunt to the lake shore most evenings.

Dad had lived there from birth; the only time he had been away from home was during World War II when he was in the army. He always said, "There is no place like home."

It was early spring. Dad called with some urgency in his voice, asking us to come and visit for the weekend. We went and helped him do a few things around the farm. When we finished our work he said, "We better go and watch the sunset." That was the last sunset that I watched with my dad. A week later, we got the call. Just the night before, he and Mom went to the beach and watched their last sunset together. Suddenly he had been called to another home. The news was devastating and our next trip home was for his funeral. Spending the next several days at the farm, grieving and not knowing what to do with myself, I would wake up early, drive to the beach to watch and listen to the waves. I felt as if Dad were with me. Every evening, I would say to my family, "If Dad were here he would say never miss a sunset," and off we would go to watch God's artwork, reminiscing about a wonderful husband, father and grandpa.

The memories of the sunsets of the Lake Huron shores have never left my heart. No matter what season I am travelling in the area, I feel an urge to be at the "beach" for the sunset. The spiritual healing that I have had just sitting on the beach, watching the sunset is more than money could ever buy! Living in our crazy "rat race" world I have learned to "take time to stop and smell the roses" and to "never miss a sunset."

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It's a Dog's Life

By Ginny Dent Brant

If we're not willing to settle for junk living, we certainly shouldn't settle for junk food.

~Sally Edwards

We got our precious Corgi, Reggie, when he was just a pup. The breeder made an important request of us before signing the papers.

"If I let you have this dog," he said, "I want you to promise you won't feed him table scraps."

"What's wrong with the scraps from my table?" I replied.

"They are high in fat, calories, and processed foods, and low in nutritional value."

His response puzzled me. If my scraps were good enough for my family, they must be good enough for my pet. This made me start thinking about the quality of the food I was eating. I must admit as a teenager I easily captured the title of "Junk Food Queen." I had to change my diet at age seventeen when my doctor warned me I was headed towards Type II diabetes.

This incident with my dog made me again examine my diet. I was better than the average American -- wasn't I? After all, I did not smoke, drink alcohol, or chew. Added to that, I did not eat many carbs or drink caffeine. I was looking more like a health nut every day. Upon further investigation, I realized much of what Americans consume daily is exactly what this vet challenged me to avoid for my dog. If these foods were not good enough for my dog, then they were not good enough for my family.

I was beginning to see that we have inverted the food pyramid. This contributes to our problems with heart disease, blood pressure, cancer, etc. I decided to change my diet by drinking more water, eating more fresh fruits and vegetables, eating lean meats, and further limiting fast foods. It did not take me long to feel and see the difference. My blood work was looking better with every checkup. I admit it was hard to give up the desserts and fried foods that had snuck back into my lifestyle -- but what a difference it made in my health. As age creeps up on me, my health means everything. And yes, I can still occasionally eat one of those savory desserts.

I was beginning to discipline my diet when my dog taught me another lesson. At age three, my dog began to have seizures. The vet said Reggie needed medication. We increased his water intake, but never gave him the medication. We had moved to an apartment while building a new home. Our dog was cooped up all day until we got home from work, so we decided to walk him several miles daily. Several months later, I took him to the vet for his checkup.

"How are Reggie's seizures?" he asked.

"Well," I pondered, "he has not had a seizure in about... five to six months." We were so busy moving and building, I neglected to notice they had stopped.

"What has changed?" he inquired.

After thinking, I responded, "We have been exercising him each day after work, and we have been giving him more water."

"Exercise and hydration have great benefits," he explained. "Dehydration can be a cause of seizures and exercise helps to regulate chemicals in the brain. It appears this new exercise and increased water may have cured Reggie's seizures."

I began to think -- if all this exercise and hydration is good enough for my dog -- then surely, it is good enough for me. I researched the benefits of hydration and found this body of mine must have the right amount of water for thousands of chemical reactions to take place daily, which ensure my good health. My brain and body are comprised of 70 to 75 percent water. I was astonished to find dehydration of cells is a major cause of cancer, kidney stones, and can be a cause of seizures. Exercise also benefits the body by strengthening the heart, lungs and bones, and keeping our brains alert and healthy. We now exercise vigorously 30 to 60 minutes four to five times each week.

Reggie went to the vet for his 15-year checkup recently. The vet was amazed at how well he has done.

"He's almost ninety-nine years old in dog years," he marveled. "The average Corgi lives about 12 years. He's beating the averages."

Reggie can no longer walk several miles with us. In his older years, he can only walk about one mile without becoming exhausted. I am thankful Reggie has made it this long and retained his health. Exercise, water, and diet are clearly the reasons why. We have benefited, too. Our diets are filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, lean meats and seafood, and healthy omegas and oils. We count those glasses of water and squeeze a lemon or lime to add a little taste. We have even bought an elliptical machine so we can exercise when it is cold or raining.

My dog Reggie was actually not my first lesson in taking care of my body. My first lesson came in my childhood years when my dad worked for U.S. Senator Strom Thurmond. The Senator treated me as one of his own and constantly gave me lectures about food, diet and exercise. My third grade health book was also filled with this same information. Unfortunately, I didn't listen.

"Don't eat too much junk food," Senator Thurmond would always say. "Fruits and vegetables are God's way of keeping you healthy."

At age eighty, the Senator jogged five miles each day, worked 60 to 80 hour weeks, and kept up with his four young children. When Strom Thurmond died at age 100, the doctor signed his death certificate with these words, "Cause of Death: old age." Rarely does anyone's death certificate say that these days.

The Bible commands us to take care of our bodies. The discipline we have developed in this area has helped us to grow in mind, body, and spirit. We now look at our health in a new light. If it's good enough for my dog, it's good enough for me. Better said, I should take care of myself as least as well as I care for my dog.

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Conquering the Gym

By Nancy Higgins Reese

Too many people confine their exercise to jumping to conclusions, running up bills, stretching the truth, bending over backward, lying down on the job, sidestepping responsibility and pushing their luck.

~Anonymous

A fat girl in elementary school is lined up against a painted cinderblock wall with her classmates. Two boys -- the best athletes in the class, of course -- stand several feet away, surveying the group critically. One by one, the students are called to join the boys' teams, until only one student is left. "Nancy," one of the boys mumbles. The girl keeps her eyes on the ground, too embarrassed to look at anyone, as she joins her team.

These are the images that pop into my head, so many years later, when I think of myself in a gym. Anyone who's been a fat kid knows gym is the worst place to be. So, last year when my diet buddy suggested that we join the gym that's housed in our office building, I literally laughed in her face. "No way!" I said, without even thinking about it. When she asked for an explanation I told her it would devastate my weight loss efforts. "Kimmy, the moment I go in there and get laughed at, I will feel like a failure. I can't take that kind of pressure right now. I need to keep things positive."

I was working so hard on my journey to reach a healthy weight. I had already lost 60 pounds, but I had at least another 30 to go before I would be satisfied. I felt that any negativity could derail me entirely, and my experience with gyms had never been anything but negative.

She let it go, and I thought -- hoped -- that would be the end of it. But my diet buddy is nothing if not persistent. Every month or two she would find a new tactic to try to convince me to go to the gym. At first she touted how inexpensive our gym is, and that I'd never find a better deal anywhere else.

"I don't want to find a better deal," I snapped. "I'm never going to the gym."

Then she tried to convince me that it wasn't that kind of gym. "There are people of all sizes and skill levels at this gym, Nancy. Everybody does their own thing, and nobody pays attention to anyone else." But how could a girl like me believe that? I knew that as soon as I walked through the door, the big, athletic guys and the tiny, perfect girls would instantly see who I was: a fat fourth-grader whose only goal at the gym was to be as invisible as possible until I could leave.

One day, during the holiday season, I was foolish enough to complain about how little time I had to work out. I tried to do it when I got my son to bed at night, but by that time I'm usually wiped out. And I'd just had an extremely unsuccessful two weeks of attempting to work out at 5 a.m. before my family woke up. But since I am nearly unable to function before 8 a.m., I was a zombie during my workouts and was quite literally going through the motions, with almost no benefit to my body.

"You know, there's a really easy solution to your problem," Kimmy replied. Her latest strategy was to proclaim the convenience of being able to work out during our lunch hour. As I came up with one excuse after another from my impressive arsenal, she sat silently and listened to all the words she'd heard before. She was very quiet when she said, "Nancy, it doesn't have to be this complicated. You're not a kid anymore, and this doesn't have to own you."

And in that moment, I knew she was right. As much progress as I'd made, I knew I would never be able to reach my goal weight, let alone keep it off, without conquering all the old demons that still haunted me. I needed to step out of my comfort zone. I realized it was my comfort zone, and not some elementary school bullies, that kept me from succeeding.

Four weeks ago I started at the gym, and I have to be honest with you: I was absolutely terrified. When Kimmy and I arrived, it was already crowded. People were lifting weights, running on the treadmills, and cycling imaginary miles on the stationary bikes. A man on the elliptical machine was shouting to his friend about how hard it is to do "two 18s" in a row. A woman jumped off the treadmill with her first two fingers poked into her neck. And I started to panic. What if somebody wants to talk to me about "two 18s?" I don't even know what that is! Should I poke my neck too? Am I checking to see if it's still fat?

Kimmy and I put our DVD into the player and started to warm up. It was surprisingly fun to work out with a buddy, much more entertaining than doing the DVD by myself. Between the music from our DVD, the sounds of all the machines and people talking, it got pretty loud at the gym and the scary thoughts in my mind began to fade.

Four weeks later, I don't hear those thoughts much anymore. The big guys that were so intimidating on my first day give me a warm wave when I arrive now; and the super-skinny girl that rules the elliptical machine confessed that she's never been confident enough to use workout DVDs in front of everybody. I told her she can join us any time. Fourth grade was a long time ago for everybody I see at the gym. As far as I can tell, no one is thinking about dividing into teams or deciding who is the weakest link. At this stage, everyone is really there to work on their own goals -- health, weight loss, empowerment and strength.

And although I will always remember the little girl who was picked last, I can now look at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors at the gym and see just how far I've come.

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How Not to Jog

By Sharon Van Zandt

If you can look at a dog and not feel vicarious excitement and affection, you must be a cat.

~Author Unknown

"So you're going for a run?" This from my husband the skinny engineer and non-runner.

"Yes. I thought I'd take the dogs."

"All three of them? Is that wise?"

"I don't know if it's wise or not, but that's the plan." This from me, the elementary school teacher who's trying not to slip into the disappearing waist, puffy thighs, flabby abs, end-of-youthful-figure zone, and who only started running recently.

I grab the leashes. The kind made of slim cords that extend with a flick of a button from a thin plastic handle. The dogs start slobbering. Jumping. Vibrating. Whining. They won't sit still while I put on their collars.

"Can you help me?" I ask my husband. He's watching me with an amused grin on his face.

I should explain here about the dogs: two Labs, Nate and Duke; one Border Collie, Jessie. They aren't exactly sterling choices for a peaceful afternoon jog. Two have never been to obedience school. One flunked out. And I rarely even take them on walks.

But we are all collared and leashed and ready to go. I've even done my pre-jog stretches. "I'm going to get a good workout today," I tell my husband. "I can feel it. Lots of cardio-building, thigh-busting exercise."

He smiles again.

"Okay, open the gate." I hold onto the leashes with a death grip, two handles in one hand, and one in the other. The three dogs hop and yip and foam at the mouth.

"Are you sure?" my husband asks.

"Yes, I'm ready."

He slides back the latch and begins to open the gate.

Larry, Curly, and Moe nose through and take off like rockets, dragging me behind them.

The wind rushes past my ears, and I hear the faint sound of laughter behind me.

Okay. This is not the plan. "Whoa!" I yank back hard. All three dogs jerk to a stop. Jessie, the meekest of the three, sits down and looks slightly guilty. "Walk!" I say, forgetting that this is supposed to be a quiet afternoon jog.

"Have fun," my husband hollers after me.

"We will!" I wave and smile. And the dogs jerk me onward.

We half-walk, half-trot down our long driveway. Then we turn left, onto a winding blacktop road, and settle into a brisk jog, the boys in front setting the pace.

My normal route is down this road, which runs past hayfields and then into an area with pristine woodland on either side, and back again. A nice two-mile jog full of the clean-air smells of the country. Unless you come across roadkill. That roadkill being a mashed-up skunk.

Now there's something about dead animals that I realize is terribly interesting to dogs. Especially mine. Before I can say, "Don't even think about it!" all three dogs are wallowing in the remains of the dead skunk.

I scream. I jerk. I stomp. I scream some more. The dogs run circles around me, tangling me in the thin nylon cords of their leashes, always going back to the skunk.

A pickup truck headed our direction stops beside me as I'm untangling myself. "Need any help?" the elderly driver asks.

I shake my head. "No thanks. I think I've got it under control." The dogs wag their tails when they hear the man's voice. They whine and try to jump on his truck, like the man is their long-lost owner, and I'm just a ranting stranger. "Cut it out!" I yell. The man drives away.

I reel in their leashes as short as possible, and we finally leave the dead skunk behind, but not the smell. It lingers in the fall air and makes me gag as the dogs jog in front of me.

We're almost to the end of the road, where the woods are thickest and where I plan to turn around and head back, when I hear a noise in the bushes beside me. A loud, crashing noise.

The dogs hear it, too.

They stop. Ears prick high. No more panting. They all three stand like statues, staring in the direction of the noise.

And then it's there. A deer. A large deer. A large running deer.

My dogs take off. Straight for the woods. I pull back on their leashes and scream, "No!" I dig my heels into the soft leafy soil.

They keep going. "Stop!" I holler. Whatever made me think I could take three large, powerful, slightly overweight dogs on a collective jog? I must have been crazy.

I'm skimming across the ground now, leaning back, digging ruts with my feet, and they're still pulling me. Through weeds and briars.

I sit down for leverage. They keep running. Now I'm bouncing along on my bottom. I feel dirt sliding up under my shorts. My backside starts to burn. I bump across the ground, screaming. But I don't dare let go of the leashes.

"It's gone," I yell. "The deer is gone!" But the dogs don't believe me.

Finally, my feet hit a fallen limb, and we stop. The dogs are shaking all over. So am I. My heart is pounding, I'm drenched in sweat, and I think I have enough dirt in my shorts to plant a small garden.

I stand, rearrange the leashes, and take a quick look around. Then, as discreetly as possible, I yank down my shorts and dump out the dirt. I find a few biting fire ants mixed in with the dirt. And I think I have stickers in my butt.

I pull up my shorts. "So much for a nice peaceful jog," I say to the dogs. "Thanks a lot. I hope you're happy." They wag their tails at me like they are extremely happy.

I limp home with the dogs. They strain against their shortened leashes, and my arms feel like they're being yanked from their sockets. When we get to the dead skunk, though, I'm ready. We walk far around.

At home, I turn the dogs loose in the backyard. I will bathe them in tomato juice later.

I drag myself inside.

"How was your jog?" my husband asks, looking over his newspaper. "Dogs do okay?"

"My jog?"

He nods.

"I wouldn't be lying if I said it was interesting."

"Yeah? Get your heart rate up?"

"Yep. Did that."

"Feel like you got a good workout?"

"Oh yeah." I rub my hand across my backside and feel the prick of splinters. "Except..."

My husband sniffs in my direction. "What's that smell?"

"Meet me in the bathroom with a pair of tweezers. I'll explain everything then."

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Just the Way I Like It

By April Knight

It isn't so much what's on the table that matters, as what's on the chairs.

~W.S. Gilbert

I was excited! I was going home to visit Aunt Marge. Marge lived in Kansas and I lived in Seattle so although I called her every week, I hadn't been home to visit her in years.

I'd been a neglected child from a broken home and the happiest memories of my childhood were the brief visits I spent with Marge. Spending a few weeks with Marge in the summer was an oasis in my life and I always thought of her as my "real" mother. She was cheerful and kind and patient and fun to be with and she was a fabulous cook. Every meal was delicious and even after all the food had been eaten, no one was anxious to leave the table, so we'd often sit and talk for an hour while the food dried on our plates and the ice cubes melted in our sweetened tea.

When I knocked on her door, I hollered, "Mom, I'm home!"

It was a happy and tearful reunion.

"I cooked all your favorite foods," Marge said.

She had cooked a meatloaf that was burned and crusty around the edges and she made lumpy mashed potatoes and half-cooked corn on the cob. She had sweetened iced tea, and she had sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and doused them in vinegar. For dessert, she had baked a chocolate cake that had fallen in the middle and was evened out with extra frosting.

It was the exact meal she'd cooked for me many times when I was a child. It was perfect, and she was right -- it was my favorite meal, because Marge was my favorite person.

At Marge's table, burned meatloaf and lumpy potatoes were a banquet, because she loved me. I told her everything was delicious and perfect because I loved her. We sat at the table and talked about the old days, family, friends, and a hundred other things because when you had a meal with Marge, you were never in a hurry to leave the table.

The next morning she fixed my favorite breakfast, coffee with cream and extra sugar and burned toast. She scraped most of the black crumbs off the toast and she covered the toast with extra butter and jelly to hide the burned parts.

We sat at the kitchen table watching the birds come and go at the birdfeeder outside the window.

"I like..." I started.

"Meadowlarks," Marge said, "When you were eight, you liked meadowlarks."

"I still do," I said. There wasn't another person in the world who knew or cared that I liked meadowlarks. Marge knew me better than anyone else and she was the only person beside myself who remembered my childhood.

That evening we sat on the front porch and listened to the locusts in the elm trees. I felt eight years old and although Marge's hair was now white, I remembered when it was dark auburn.

"Do you still have Suzie?" she asked.

"No, she got lost a long time ago," I said. Suzie was a doll with a cracked head and one missing eye. The rubber band holding her arms onto her body had rotted and her arms had fallen off, but she'd been my favorite doll when I was five.

"Too bad," Marge said. "I've really missed you. I wish you didn't live so far away."

"I've missed you, too," I said. I hadn't realized how much until now. "I'll come home more often, I promise."

The sun went down and we went inside to watch television.

"We should have a snack before we go to bed," Marge said. She went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a bowl of ice cream for each of us. When I was a child, we always had a bowl of ice cream before we went to bed. Tonight it was strawberry ice cream with broken potato chips sprinkled on top because that was how I liked it the summer I was seven.

I knew the next day, and every day of my two-week visit, would be the same. The meals would only vary by which foods would be burned and which foods would be half-cooked. We'd scrape the black crusts off the meat, potatoes, rolls or toast. We'd reheat undercooked vegetables. We'd laugh and do whatever we needed to do to make it edible, whether it was just scooping out the middle and leaving the black edges stuck to the pan or if it meant covering something with gravy that was either as thin as water or thick enough to cut with a knife. When she accidentally dropped a hot pad into a boiling pot of chicken and dumplings she dug the hot pad out with a spoon and asked, "Do you think that will affect the flavor?"

I told her no, I didn't think so, and it didn't matter -- it would taste like a feast to me.

Because with Marge, it was never about the food, it was about the love.

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Teddy's Tunes

By Lil Blosfield

Follow your passion, and success will follow you.
~Terri Guillemets

My husband, Ted, is a number of years older than I, although I won't say the actual number. As he was nearing retirement age, Ted suddenly decided to do just that -- retire.

Well, actually, he didn't exactly retire... he just quit his job to pursue his muse. Ted had always wanted to be involved in music. I could recognize this passion, having aspired to be a great pianist decades earlier.

Our living room slowly but surely began to resemble a recording studio loaded with mixing boards, computers, speakers, microphones, microphone stands, and various other pieces of equipment that are still mysterious to me. Was I a supportive wife? Definitely not at first, as I watched my home becoming an electronics circus.

Then Ted started getting jobs as a karaoke jockey (KJ). His new business grew as he started building a following of friends and groupies. I even attended a gig or two. Yes, we had to start talking in KJ language, which included "gig." In those early years of his new passion, Ted's song collection grew slowly as he incrementally purchased karaoke discs and even more equipment. We went through reams of paper and cases of ink cartridges as Ted printed his song lists each time new selections were added.

Ted's clear happiness in what seemed to me to be a ton of work for little money (not to mention the expense of the equipment) was contagious. Who was I to deny him the opportunity to be involved in something that he had always dreamed about? I'm not sure a karaoke jockey was exactly what he had anticipated but it did involve music, although certainly some performances were questionable! I found myself encouraging Ted and trying to do what I could to help him.

One night I made up a flyer for an upcoming event. The proprietor of the establishment that had hired Ted was anxious for a large turnout. So I thought that an advertising flyer might help get the word out. Jokingly, I dubbed the event as karaoke by "Teddy's Tunes." I only printed one flyer, thinking that certainly Ted would not go for his new name. Surprisingly, he did and even more surprisingly, the name took off. Calls came in asking for "Teddy's Tunes" and Ted began being recognized out and about as "Teddy's Tunes." Some friends even made up a little jingle about "Teddy's Tunes" to the tune of "Spider Man."

As Teddy's Tunes' followers grew, even more humorously he became known for "Old People Karaoke." There was an abundance of Rat Pack singers and crooners, a few country folks, and even some that preferred to display their musical ability singing old Broadway show tunes. He typically scheduled his gigs in the early evening, to be finished by 10:00 p.m., while most entertainment doesn't even start until then.

Little by little this karaoke cult took on a personality of its own. Egos abounded and there were disputes amongst singers allowed to sing out of order from the original line-up, preferences being made for audience requests and the like. Some of the singers even branched out to create singing groups and requested Ted as their sound man. Ted went back and forth between enjoying his passion for music and his dislike of the drama.

And I, alas, found myself with a second job instead of slowing down toward retirement. I was keeping track of his schedule to coordinate with family events, and tracking the revenue and expenses for taxes. I even acted as a roadie, lugging the heavy equipment in and out of our van at times when some health issue or minor injury prevented Ted from lifting things.

I was also put in charge of what Ted dubbed a "customer appreciation" party annually. Thankfully, this was held as a backyard barbeque over the summer months, but nonetheless, it required quite a bit of cooking, coordination, set-up, clean-up and all the other chores that hosting a large party brings. Thankfully, we always invited our neighbors and they actually loved the "Old People Karaoke!"


Somehow, Ted's semi-retirement became quite a bit of fun for both of us as we occasionally spent an evening together singing in our living room. And our daughter, Elizabeth, has had many a fun-filled get-together with her friends in that same living room, while our other daughter, Amanda, proudly brings her friends to Ted's gigs. We even have managed to make Ted's new career fit with my work with not-for-profits. Ted has provided sound, music and entertainment for a variety of fundraisers that I am involved in. Even Ted's ninety-three-year-old mother comes out to see her son perform.

I continue to clean around Ted's cords, microphone wires, and speaker stands, and I tolerate coming home from work to find a recording session underway in my home.

Would I ask that Ted give all this up? Absolutely not! I'm planning my revenge for the day that I decide to "retire."

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