Wicked Winter, eh?

What a wicked winter, eh? Remember the catch phrase “when hell freezes over”? Well, it's a done deal – not even an ember left smoldering to warm up Old Scratch's hooves. The polar vortex has a strangle hold on North America and we are all caught in its long-reaching icy grip. Thirty torturous minutes on the treadmill can barely produce a sweat these days. Last night Hubby Dear swore that his poor old bones would take till July to thaw. What a cacophony of creaks and groans we make each night as we help each other up the stairs to bed. Not much chance of a race to the finish, that's for sure. All together now, let's hear a rousing chorus of “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.”

Even the deep south is in a deep freeze. From Virginia to Florida and across to Texas, cars are slipping off icy roads and people are bundled tighter than mummies in an Egyptian tomb. Canadian snowbirds are crying in their frozen daiquiris while shivering in their capris and sandals. It seems that the dawning of a new ice age has caught global warming proponents by surprise. What a mess!

I wonder if the winter of 2014 is producing a bumper crop of people suffering from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? I have always stated clearly and emphatically to anyone who would listen that I hate winter. Finally, scores of others have seen the light (or lack thereof) and are joining in my heartfelt plea to Mother Nature and Old Man Winter to bring an immediate halt to their nefarious version of Ice Capades. Enough already, you two sadistic old jackasses.

The frigid air has even managed to freeze dreams of escaping to a warmer climate. How far south would you have to go this year to find a tropical paradise? And who wants to spend half their vacation time stuck in an airport with thousands of other disgruntled passengers anyway while planes remain frozen to the tarmac?

Let's try to stay positive. We can wrap ourselves in blankets, consume copious amounts of calories for fat storage to stay warm, drink hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and watch Fantasy Island on Netflix. At least the planes are flying there and people are strolling sandy beaches or sipping cocktails in gently swaying hammocks under a palm tree. Sigh!!!!

Aloha'Oe, Aloha'Oe.....

Losing the Little Guy

There's a current TV commercial which shows a young mother taking a leisurely stroll through time to find the best food for her family. She eventually ends up in an old-fashioned little store where a smiling grocer personally serves up freshly cut deli fare for her to sample. Ah, a simpler time.

Like many of my acquaintances, I grew up in a tiny outport community nestled along the rugged shoreline of Canada's 10^th province. There was very little luxury in any of the homes which spread out from the brook running through the middle of town, but it didn't matter anyway because everyone had the same lifestyle. Scattered throughout the community were several little stores (shops) owned by local residents, and their contents were varied indeed.... “everything from a baker's fart to a thunderclap”, to use the vernacular. These little mom and pop establishments played a vital role in people's lives, providing them with food, sundries, and an opportunity for social interaction. The proprietors were also livyers and they knew everyone else in the community. When you walked through the door, a little bell sounded overhead and you were greeted with a smile and often called by name by the person behind the counter. Inquiries about your school grades or how your parents were doing usually followed as you passed in your mom's handwritten order. Then slices of ham or baloney were wrapped in brown paper and tied with string from a big bobbin sitting next to the meat cutter. If you were really lucky, a tiny paper bag filled with candy was passed over the counter with a wink as a little gift for doing so well in the latest spelling bee or getting an A on a math test. These pillars of the community certainly never became millionaires but they managed to make a living and they knew what it meant to help out a neighbour when times were tough. Many people in the community carried “tabs” with the local storekeeper and would pay up at the end of the month or whenever cash became available. Credit cards were non-existent but a family's good name was enough collateral to see them through when necessary.

Those days are long gone. Big box stores have cornered the market and, like mindless robots, we all line up with plastic in hand to put ourselves further in debt buying up the latest fashions and gadgets. Even in a remote area such as I live in, the small local retailers are dropping off one by one. They either can't compete with the prices offered by megastores or they are being forced out of prime locations to make room for the conglomerates. While I like a bargain as much as the next person, I find it sad that many small businesses are facing an uphill struggle these days. The little guy is being stomped into the ground by the invading giants. Where's David and his trusty slingshot when you need him?

Governments pay lip service to encouraging entrepreneurship, but the reality for business and tax revenues is that the almighty dollar dictates the bottom line. If you are fortunate enough to live in an area where there is a choice of products and services, please support the little guy whenever possible. You may just find yourself taking a pleasant stroll down memory lane in the process.