The Daiquiri Station - Leesville, LA

Week 1 at Camp Swampy was over and it definitely was time to blow off a little steam -- OK a lot of steam -- because god knows it had been a crazy week. And since it also was the Thursday night before a 4 day weekend, we were primed for action and a little strategic investigation of the cultural overlays in Leesville, the town just outside of the Fort Polk main gate.

Our primary mission, aligning with the Commander’s CCIRs and PIRs was to check out the local wildlife and observe them in their native habitat. Our secondary mission was to get stupid, something we knew we could handle. A warno was issued and the mission restated and defined as a recon detail to The Daiquiri Station in booming downtown Leesville. Transport was secured, GPS locked in, and a designated driver in place along with Navy helo support for backup in case we needed immediate air evac (assuming we just happened upon a helicopter…) Contingency plans were formulated and relevant personnel were alerted and standing by. We were confident that our mission was solid and on track.

The Daiquiri Station is one of several places in Leesville that features a wide selection of flavoured daiquiris. It is located on the main road that goes through town where most of the “action” takes place: Burger King, McDonalds, the Wagon Wheel Steak House, and numerous nail salons, gas stations, night clubs, strip joints, and sundry other shops and service centers. The Daiquiri Station is at the far end of town from Fort Polk which really doesn’t say much because Leesville isn’t that big so a few more blocks in any direction really doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference.
It was not early/not yet late when 4 of us rolled into The Daiquiri Station. Truly, it is one of the coolest places you will ever visit. Once upon a time it was a gas station so there is a fairly large parking lot surrounding the building with designated parking spots for motorcycles and a special lane marked out with stanchions and chains that leads to the drive-through pick-up window. Honest to god, you can get take-out daiquiris and yes, it is fully legal. The only trick is that you can’t have an unwrapped straw sticking out of the plastic lid that covers the Styrofoam cup containing your daiquiri. Apparently no one is concerned that people might take the lid off and drink straight from the cup while driving but they are concerned that people will put the straw in the daiquiri and somehow end up with a DUI. Logically this seems senseless to most folks but here in the depths of Louisiana it makes perfect sense: who in their right mind would drink a daiquiri without a straw? No straw = no daiquiri. It is just that simple. Life does not need to be so complicated, as it turns out.

We parked the car at the back of the lot by the swampy little pond and looked for alligator eyes peering back at us. Nothing seemed to be moving so we determined that the car was safe and unlikely to be pulled into the swamp by an overzealous alligator looking for a new set of wheels to park in his alligator garage. We walked around to the entrance at the front and crossed the deck that extends out from the building where the big service bay door used to be. Actually the garage door is more or less still there because it can be opened exposing the whole inside of the bar or closed as it was on a subsequent visit when we saw a bunch of serious looking old guys sitting inside at a substantial round table playing cards. The Daiquiri Station is not a big place; it’s really only the dimensions of the former gas station’s shop/office area. There are a few high-tops, a couple of regular tables, two TV screens (one was playing a polo match, of all things), an old jukebox, and behind the bar, a wall of daiquiri-slushies with cool names like monkey wrench (banana), lemonator, and 93 octane (orange). Robin was tending bar. We like Robin. She is 40ish, friendly yet reserved, and attractive in a home-grown sort of way. While I was waiting for her to prep my drink (the el grando monkey wrench), I started talking to a local guy who was nursing a beer at bar. I asked him if he’d had a good day and he proceeded to tell me he’d been at the DMV trying to get his driver’s license back. He did not offer an explanation of why he’d lost it in the first place so I decided it was not good form for me to inquire. Apparently, he got into a “discussion” with the DMV clerk and instead of letting the clerk have his way in order for our guy to collect his driver’s license and escape without incident, our guy decided he needed to take a stand against the injustice of it all (I know. I wasn’t following either.) He said something of consequence to the clerk and then stormed out … without his driver’s license. He and I pondered this situation for a moment because he was going to have to go back at some point to try again to get his license. In the end, however, he didn’t think it would be a problem and we left it at that. All of this led to me asking what I thought was the obvious question of “so how did you get here tonight if you aren’t driving?” and him responding with the not quite so obvious reply of “through the woods.” I might have known.

Robin gave me my daiquiri and I joined my fellow warriors/recon scouts at the table. We noted that as a field research project there were few places in this world as culturally rich as The Daiquiri Bar. Just then, another guy – a short, skinny dude about 50 years old with long hair pulled back in a ponytail wearing a black T shirt, and jeans-- came over and asked us if we would like to buy raffle tickets on a gun which was a fundraiser for some local family. I’d seen him pull in to the parking lot a while earlier on a motorcycle as big as he was. He only had three tickets left at $1 each so I said I would buy them because this was all so highly amusing to me. I said I didn’t want the gun if I won and told him to put his name or the bartender’s name on the tickets instead. This caused no end of consternation; here’s dude yelling across the bar to his girlfriend about how to handle this, whose name to use, how to spell it correctly. It was a riot! In the end I believe he wrote his girlfriend’s name on the tickets and everyone was happy.

The Daiquiri Station not only has slushies with cool names, there’s also a menu of shots with exotic names that one needs to try. The list is posted on a blackboard that hangs beside the wall of slushie machines. First up for us was the Chicken Fucker. Yup. That is the name. It is a lemony sort of thing if I remember correctly (but I would not swear to that). Next time we will test the Alien Secretions. A couple of those shots and a daiquiri or two and I guarantee you are going to appreciate Louisiana like you never did before.

A few hours later we wrapped up our field research. We’d “interviewed” several locals, did a little participant observation, and tested some of the local customs and foodways. We’d also had a lot of weird liquor, admired acres of body art (aka tattoos), and talked to guys with odd teeth and interesting hair, and women with really tight shirts and jeans.  All in all, even though we had gathered loads of data to analyze, we decided that some follow up research was going to be necessary and it was highly likely we would need a return mission to The Daiquiri Station. Soon. Very soon.

On the way back to mission headquarters we made a brief provisioning stop at a gas station. We needed beer and Doritos to bring as an offering to our KLE meeting with the Ohio National Guard OMLT. One last piece of data was collected at the gas station that we found useful and encouraging: as you enter the door to the convenience store, right where the register is located, there was a big tub of single beers on ice. Yes, on ice. We determined this was damn fine planning on the gas station owner’s part. Not only can you get your take-out daiquiri in this state, you also can get an ice cold single beer as a chaser without having to buy a whole 6 pack. If that isn’t strategic planning, I don’t know what is. Throw in a bag of Doritos and some salt and pepper kettle chips and suddenly life is looking pretty darned civilized in the backwoods of Louisiana!

End result: it was a successful and well executed mission. Several follow-ons subsequently were completed and additional data was gathered. We expect to brief the Battalion Commander in the near future but are secretly hoping he will ask for a more in-depth study …

Kansas City, MO June 17, 2011


I have been in class with a guy from South Carolina for the past 10 or so weeks who has the perfect response to almost any situation that goes haywire, is totally ridiculous, or completely unnecessary. It also perfectly describes the idiots of the world who, for example clearly just do not get “it” (whatever “it” may be), steal your parking spot while you are waiting right there with your signal lite on, or simply are taking up valuable real estate on this earth for no good god damn reason. And that phrase is... Clown Shoes. I have no idea where this came from or for how long he has been using it, but I am adopting it. I think it is succinct and has great clarity; it is expressive and visual all in one phrase. It is the English language at its best.

Let me explain: currently we are sitting in a classroom in Leavenworth, KS with not a frigging thing to do. We have completed all of our paperwork, handed in our packets, and finished any and all assignments. We are bored out of our skulls. People are killing zombies, crushing castles, and shopping online. One of our classmates is reading out loud from the benefits manual; that is how bad this situation is. Another one of our classmates walked down to the bakery down the block and bought a huge box of cookies with piles of really rich icing on top of them. So now we are not only bored to tears, we also are all strung out on sugar. It the same as being all dressed up with nowhere to go.

This is Clown Shoes. For sure, totally Clown Shoes.

And all of this cuz we are waiting for some Clown to come and give us a briefing about something we don't give a hoot about.

Oh, and by the way, it is Friday afternoon and this has been going on all week.

Clown Shoes. You get it.

Grade 7 Class Trip

February 8, 2011

I live in the city that is the primo destination for almost every class trip in America. Each spring and fall thousands upon thousands of students, teachers, and parent chaperones descend on Washington, DC from Middle America. All of the kids look insanely bored as they trudge from museum to historic site to yet another monument. I’m sure every single one of them is thinking, “I could Google all of this stuff in two minutes on my I Phone so why not just do that so we can go to the Hard Rock Café already?” A handful of adults with clipboards and whistles shepherd the students around the sites while trying to maintain some semblance of control. They too are deep in their own thoughts but their internal conversation trends more towards, “Why in hell did I let my wife/husband volunteer me for this gig?” and “there isn’t nearly enough booze in this whole city to make this right.”


Back in the Dark Ages when I was a kid in Saskatoon, the class trip was to the provincial capital of Regina. We went in Grade 7 which would have made us about 13 years old. I remember 13 well, and trust me, visiting Regina was not at the top of my “To Do” list. In fact I vividly remember thinking Regina was a dump. Now whether that was true or not is not relevant; it was just one of those city rivalries that are deeply rooted in the past. In this case it went back to the formation of the province in 1905 when Regina was made the provincial capital and Saskatoon was awarded the province’s university. From that time on, the two cities competed for everything and residents bickered constantly over the worth and value of their fair city as compared to the other which clearly was substandard. Moreover, a big chunk of Regina started out life as a slough, and masses of mosquitoes and god knows what other critters populated the city, so people in Saskatoon easily wrote off Regina as a Nowhereville dive. After all, Saskatoon had the university so clearly we had the intellectual wherewithal to articulate such a well thought out yet concise analysis of the Regina landscape…

At any rate, Regina was the destination for the Grade 7 class trip for all kids in the province. Our class, Miss Mills’ Grade 7 students from Hugh Cairns VC School, took our grand tour on March 31, 1970. There were 25 kids in our class – 14 boys and 11 girls and most had been in the same class since Grade 1. You can well imagine that by Grade 7 we pretty much knew everything about everyone which made school and school activities – even field trips --exceedingly boring from a social point of view. We were 13 and restless although we really didn’t know why. Energy ran high but our interests were firmly grounded in the present. No one was dying to see the provincial Legislature or visit historic sites except maybe Walter Orr, our class nerd. The past was, well … past and the future was incomprehensible. Still, going to Regina was better that sitting in Miss Mills’ class doing math or social studies so I do remember looking forward to the trip. The real hook though, was that we were going on the train!

I’m willing to bet that at that point very few kids in my class had been on a train so most of us were a lot more interested in the trip once we learned we would ride the rails. This gave the whole exercise a bit of glam or even drama that was appealing. BUT THEN WE GOT TOTALLY SCREWED. Every Grade 7 class in our school that had gone on this trip before us had taken the train to Regina but at the last minute there was a change of plans we got stuck on a bus. Not kidding. It was a regular old everyday bus with no redeeming qualities. What a come down. We were some kind of pissed.

But here’s the thing, in my diary that day I wrote across the top of the page in capital letters: MY LUCKY, LUCKY DAY!!! Obviously it had not been a total write off, so what happened? It’s elementary: we met boys from another Saskatoon school who also were on the Grade 7 Regina class tour. And they were cute. Me and my group of friends immediately were in love. I mean seriously, boys we did not know from another school who were really cute looked in our direction and smiled. We were hooked.

Here’s how it all went down: between Saskatoon and Regina is Davidson, a small town that is more or less the half way point between the two cities. Most people stop there to get gas, have a snack, and use the facilities. The trip to Regina was unremarkable other than we got off the bus in Davidson for a few minutes and then kept right on driving to Regina. The whole trip would have taken about two and a half hours. In my mind I remember it as a typical grey, wintery Saskatchewan March day. I don’t recall any sunshine or blue sky which often means it is goddamn cold, so lets assume it was cold but not more than about 10 below, snow all over the ground, and we were all bundled up in parkas, boots, and gloves, kind of like we were every other day but our “outfits” under our jackets would have been a little nicer than on a regular school day because we were going on a “TRIP.”

We arrived at the Royal Saskatchewan Museum (was it called that in 1970? I think it had a different name) and began our tour. There was a lot of archeological history, plants, stuffed animals etc. and I found it all rather unnecessary. Until, as I noted in my diary, “we saw some cute boys” from Greystone Heights School. Now this was interesting. We didn’t know any of these boys; Greystone was just far enough away from where we lived that we would not have interacted with them. Forget the dioramas, teepees, and stuffed buffalo; we were hunting cute boys from Greystone.

The Greystone kids were on tour behind our class so if we hung back just long enough from our group, we could watch them and “flirt” in our giggly 13 year old girl fashion. One of the Greystone boys had a camera and started taking pictures of us. WE LOVED it! I mean WE REALLY LOVED it! We each picked out the boy we liked and began to spin stories in our head (“I bet he is probably my soul mate for life!”) and then assured each other we were definitely perfect for the boy we had targeted. We were just on the front end of puberty and were entirely clueless as to what romance and love was all about, but we knew for sure that it was what we wanted. This trip occurred at the height of my major crush on the Monkees and the Cowsills so I was looking for a boy who fit that mold –cute, great hair, big smile, nice teeth, and by definition was sweet, fun, and very popular. Hey, I read 16 Magazine all the time and was very familiar with how sweet and nice all the boy stars were in real life! I wanted someone just like that. And on that day, in that moment, it was Dean Houston of Greystone Heights School.

At any rate, as the day went on we crossed paths with them several more times: at the RCMP Barracks, the Legislature, and finally in Davidson when the bus made the requisite half way home stop. No one exchanged phone numbers or suggested plans to meet again – we never did get that close --but it was clear as a bell to the girls from Hugh Cairns that the world was way bigger than we’d thought and there were cute boys at Greystone who thought we were cute too. There was life outside of South Nutana where we lived and we were now determined to find out how to make that work for us.

And so the games began. As it turned out, Kim Davidson’s grandparents lived in Greystone and Kim frequently stayed with them while her troubled parents did whatever they were doing. We visited Kim’s grandparents and had sleepovers in their basement and snuck out at night to walk past the homes of the Greystone boys in case they would suddenly come out. But that’s a whole other story.

Bowling: Frame 1 - 1969

August 12, 2010


Somehow in the fall of 1969 we got involved in a bowling league that ran concurrent with the school year. I haven’t the faintest idea anymore how this all came to pass but I remember all of my friends were involved at one time or another. I wrote in my diary on September 12, “Today we started bowling. Rolland is in bowling too.” Rolland Gillies was in our class at school and I had an on again, off again crush on him, but mostly on that fall.

We were in a Saturday morning kid’s league at the King George Bowling Alley downtown. Once upon a time the King George was a nice hotel with a fancy lounge and restaurant but as the years passed, it became somewhat shabby. When we were older, but still underage, we would go to the bar there and drink draft beer. Sadly, it had become that sort of place.

The bowling alley which was on the basement level of the hotel was typical bowling alley-esque. You came down the stairs and entered a sort of foyer situation that had soda and candy machines. We were crazy for cherry Coke back then and that was the only machine I remember that had it. Just past the vending machines was the desk where you checked in, got your shoes, found your lane assignment, and talked to dreamy Jerry Phillips. Jerry worked at the bowling alley part time and played football for the Hilltops, Saskatoon’s Junior Football team. I noted in my diary the first week that his number was 55. I also wrote down his phone number which I must have looked up in the phone book. I had a real habit of recording phone numbers, for some now unknown reason. Two weeks after the start of bowling we went to the Hilltop’s game and I wrote in my diary, “After supper we went to Jerry’s game. They won 32-0. YAY!”

I am guessing that when we first met him, Jerry was about 18-20 years old – and we were 12. He was tall and athletic and had dark wavy hair. Moreover, he was the sweetest guy any of us had ever met. He teased us and flirted with us all of the time, but not in a weird older guy - little girl way. I suspect it was as much fun for him as it was for us because we were wild about him and I’ve never met a 20 year old guy who wasn’t completely flattered when a whole herd of little girls think he is the best thing since pizza. As you can imagine, this let loose the perfect storm of prepubescent raging girl hormones culminating in lots of excuses to go the front counter. We wanted to keep tabs on our Jerry.

The bowling alley was a total zoo on Saturday mornings – filled with rangy kids. I think there were 20 or more lanes and all were in use. There were both girls and boys teams which led to a certain amount of additional tearing around but I really don’t remember any of us actually being interested in any of the boys from bowling. Officially there were 5 of us on the team but the rest of the girls bowled with us sometimes when we needed a sub if someone wasn’t able to show up for one reason or another. We struggled at first to agree on a team name, but in the end we settled on the Godly Goons. No, I am not kidding. Eventually it was shortened to the Goons and we came to really identify with the name. It made us feel funny and silly and somehow it gave us license to act goofy – as if we needed any more encouragement for that. And because we had a wacky name and were always laughing and carrying on, not a lot of teams took us seriously. Big mistake. As it turns out, we were pretty good AND we had our secret weapon – Barb Olson who was a spectacular bowler and won all kinds of tournaments. Plus she had long blonde hair and was really cute, definitely a team advantage!

Barb was one of the original Grade 1 crew at Hugh Cairns, our local public school, but later her family moved to a bigger house just far enough away that she attended a different school than us for a few years. Still, she came to bowling with us. And let me tell you, that girl had a great eye and superb aim. There rest of us were not bad and could usually hold up our end of the game reasonably well, but without a doubt, Barb was the star of the show. In October I wrote in my diary, “Today at bowling our team went to watch Rolland’s team. They are lousy. We are a lot better.” Always the modest one …

This is how it generally played out: we either took the number 4 bus going downtown or someone’s parents dropped us off at the King George. We would be there for about 2 hours bowling, messing around, eating junk food, and visiting with other friends who came down to watch and hang out with us. After bowling we would always go across the street to The Bay for chips and gravy in their third floor cafeteria. Oh, and chocolate milk. I went through a big chocolate milk phase then and liked it best at The Bay. Plus if you got a straw, or used a Twizzler as a straw, you could blow mega chocolate milk bubbles and make a huge mess. The cafeteria was usually busy with lots of Saturday shoppers so it seemed lively and filled with energy to us. Once in a while you would run into your Mum at The Bay which was good if she bought lunch but bad if she crimped your style or got mad at you for “bothering” the other shoppers.

Anyway, these were the days before the Midtown Plaza opened a few blocks away where the old railroad station used to be so The Bay was almost the only game in downtown. Eaton’s also was downtown but it was just far enough away that we didn’t usually want to walk those 3 or 4 blocks in cold Saskatchewan weather. We would come straight over from bowling, head up to The Bay’s top floor, have our lunch, and then “run away” on each other. Essentially this meant two or three girls on a sort of team would go hide somewhere in the store and the other team would have to find them. We did that for hours and hours. It is a total wonder we were never thrown out of the store. Occasionally we would steal a Crunchie from the candy department, especially when it was on the main floor near the Second Avenue entrance. We were such hardened criminals. The only thing I ever stole was chocolate bars because I was too scared to go big time. I had a big fuzzy gold parka then with a hood that had fake white fur trim around it and I would mosey past the Crunchies and slide one up my sleeve. Then I would panic because I was absolutely positive I was going to get caught and be sent to reform school. (I didn’t actually know anyone who ever was sent to reform school, or for that matter what reform school was, and honestly I can’t actually be certain there was such a thing in Saskatoon, but the notion that it might exist was enough to scare me silly.) One or two of the other girls would periodically steal cheap makeup, but that was not common. Well, unless we are talking about Kim because I think at one point she had a nice little stash of Mary Quant lip pots going on and I seem to remember she got caught at least once shoplifting at the Bay.

Sometimes we would go to a matinee after bowling at either the Capital or the Odeon. The Capital Theatre was spectacular. It was an old fashioned movie house with a long red carpeted entry that had an incline ending on what would have been the equivalent of the second floor. The candy counter was just past where you handed off your ticket. From there you could go straight in to the lower level or up to the balcony. I LOVED the balcony. Inside the theatre was painted gold with stars and clouds and lots of ornate design. This was also in the days before cup holders became standard in theatres so you would stick your drink under your seat and hope you remembered not to kick it over. I also remember there was a fairly big stage with velvet curtains because before the Centennial Auditorium was built, we used to go to the Capital to see the Royal Winnipeg Ballet or the National Ballet when they were on tour.

At any rate, bowling was a major social event for us. Sure we actually bowled and really cared about how we placed, but we loved bowling mostly because it was a way to hang out downtown without being supervised, meet other kids, and just generally pretend we were older and more sophisticated than we were. And in Saskatoon in 1969, it was about the biggest adventure available to us. It was the next year when we were in Grade 8 that everything changed and our universe expanded. Of course, that was after we met the boys from Grosvenor at Murray Livergant’s bar mitzvah …

Fireworks!

July 28, 2010

I may be a day late and a dollar short on this but I am still shaken up by the recent Fourth of July fireworks spectacle on my block. It was insane. I’ve lived in this house for four years so this is not my first rodeo but goddamn, this was one for the ages.

Frankly, I don’t think of myself as a total pussy but I have to say that the Fourth of July in DC scares the bejesus out of me. I don’t know if this is a Canadian vs. American cultural kinda thing, but maybe there is something to that. At least for now, that is my cover.

In all of the years I’ve been in DC I’ve never lived in a ‘hood where fireworks were as integral to every July 4th party as they are where I live now. The first year I closed on the house June 30 but didn’t move in until the middle of July so I missed the whole Fourth gig. When the next July 4th rolled around, I COULD NOT BELIEVE what was going on out in front of my house on the sidewalk and in the little park across the street, as well as in the alley out back. (Necessary random factiod: the park was built by Steven Spielberg for Minority Report and my house has a cameo early in the movie!) As soon as the sun started to set, it was as if Caesar announced “let the games begin” because all hell broke lose at the same time. I think my neighbour George and his relatives from Maryland were largely responsible for the whole fireworks setup that year. Despite me being afraid, I could see that George (who is fairly imposing at 6‘ 8”) was in control and making sure nothing weird happened so I tried to go with the flow … for a while at least. Moreover, they were lighting little rockets that really just fizzed up a ways and made a high pitched whistley sort of sound before they popped. There wasn’t much colour or big spectacle, all things considered. I was actually in bed when it all came down. I’d NEVER experienced anything like this before so I went outside and sat on the porch for a few minutes to survey the situation. I was scared but not terrified. George’s wife Regina saw me hiding on the porch so she came over and insisted I come out to the street so I could see better. Oh yeah. Just what I wanted.

I didn’t know what was worse – letting my neighbours know I was a ‘fraidy cat or possibly getting burnt to a crisp by a rogue rocket thingy. I had no intention of becoming a crispy critter. I ended up sitting on the steps with Regina at the end of my front walk and watching for about 10 or 15 minutes until I was over it and went back into the house. I finally fell asleep a while later when the hoopla began to peter out but the artillery-like sound didn’t completely stop until the wee hours.

The following year, I was all ready. I expected the light show and all of the noise. I had a dinner party that night and sent my friends off to watch the “official” Mall fireworks from the roof deck of a nearby apartment building one of them owned. Now those are fireworks! Big booms, colours splashing and dripping all over the sky, and giant sparklers that whizz all the way to heaven then explode into teeny white diamonds that are so bright it seems like daytime. Very cool. Produced by professional fireworks guys and backed up by big burly firemen with shiny fire trucks and high pressure water in hoses that can reach a hundred miles if should there be “a fireworks malfunction” which there never is because the professionals are in charge. Did I mention that these are designed and staged by professionals – people whose career it is to do this safely? Yes. Professional firework guys. Love ‘em.

Anyway, back on my block I was armed and ready for chaos but there was just a fraction of the activity of the previous year. You see, George and family had moved and there was no one really coordinating the “show” so it was pretty haphazard and relatively tame, thank god. Sure there was stuff popping all over the ‘hood, but nothing like the year before. I was immensely relieved.

July 4, 2010 rolled around and while I was worried, I was not in a panic. BIG mistake. Michael and I were at home because I had insisted we needed to secure the premises and make sure no 13 year old pyros burned my (brick!) house down. Right at dusk, the entire neighbourhood went nuts. Seriously. This made George’s production look like candles in paper cups at a protest march. And LOUD. My god it was unbelievably LOUD. In the Spielberg Park across the street and in the back alley there must have been a million rockets shooting in every damn direction. And here’s the other thing: these were really big fireworks that sped into the sky and exploded into a million different colours just like the “real” fireworks on the Mall.

Never in my life have I heard so much noise. Understand that this was not just popping of little firecrackers or half-assed bottle rockets that kids sometimes set off to scare one another. NOOOOO. This was serious business and I was TERRIFIED!!

One of people down the block was having a party on her deck that sits on top of the garage behind her house. It has a charming view of the back alley which has no appeal to me, but on that nite, it sure was the center of attention. That crew and others were setting off endless strings of fireworks in the alley and on occasion throwing them into a metal garbage can for maximum sound effect. I asked Michael if we were in 1970s Beirut. It was incredible.

At first I was pacing from back door to front door trying to determine where the first giant fire would start because I just KNEW there was going to be a raging inferno soon. I have two fire extinguishers in my house (I know, a bit extreme but my Dad would be so proud!) so I was relatively confident that I could control a fire while Michael called 911. Then a huge crew of fire trucks and lots of really good looking firemen would descend and save us. (Well, a girl can have a little imagination, yes?)

As the sounds intensified and even more people were shooting off even more fireworks, I finally came unglued and hightailed it upstairs to my bed and crawled under the covers and stuffed my fingers into my ears. In the past I have found that when all else fails, hiding under the covers is a reliable survival strategy. It is sort of like when wee little kids cover their eyes and can’t see anyone so they assume you can’t see them either. I can hide in bed and if I don’t know what is going on, it can’t hurt me. Trust me; there really is some sense in there.

Meanwhile, Michael, the American, was having a grand ole time. He was out back, then out front, then out back again watching the spectacle which he thought was quite marvelous. He loved the sparklies and the bright colours and the trails of smoke. Even the noise didn’t faze him. While he was busy chatting up the neighbours and being totally delighted by the whole thing, I was making a cave in my bed and burrowing down as far as I could go.

It took a while but eventually he realized I was MIA. Of course I couldn’t hear him calling my name over all of the noise. Plus my fingers were in my ears and I was humming (I forget what) to block out the machine gun fire I was sure was right outside of my second story bedroom window. (I never claimed any of this was rational!) When he found me, I think his first instinct was to laugh out loud at my lunacy but being a polite Southern boy, he restrained himself nicely. He assured me we were not in Beirut or even Afghanistan and that the world most certainly was not coming to an end. He put on the bedroom TV and we watched some of the “real” fireworks from the Mall which were SO beautiful. Then we watched the production from New York which too was SO lovely. Around midnite most of the racket from outside began to poop out and I drifted off to sleep.

In the end maybe I am a big pussy but I don’t see it that way. I really think this is an “us vs. them” cultural thing. As Canadians we are not prone to setting off fireworks on our front lawns (nor do we often burn down our houses while deep frying frozen turkey on the wooden deck, but that is a whole other thing) and since we are mostly good doobies and don’t want to get on the wrong side of Officer Dudley Do-Right, we tend not to walk on the wild side very often. All I know is that I am already making plans to be far away from DC next Fourth of July so I don’t have to do this again. Oh, and as a risk- adverse Canadian, I will remember to increase the house insurance so if some little pyromaniac does torch the place, I’m made in the shade.

God Save the Queen and God Bless America. Just leave the fireworks out of the mix!

The Decorative Arts?

An earlier version of this story appeared in Voice of the Hill, November 2004

You know … when it comes to Holiday décor, lots and lots of people simply lose control and give in to their basest impulses. We’re talking people who usually have impeccable taste, beautifully appointed homes, manicured lawns, and colour coordinated flower beds, who will after Thanksgiving chuck all of their fine living decorum for a chance to have the biggest honkin’ festival of lights in all of Christendom right in their own front yard. Why? I haven’t the faintest idea but I will tell you that neither money, social position, nor proximity to power guarantees good taste at the Holidays. No matter what area you cruise through, whether it is majestic East Capitol, quaint Park Street, or funky H Street, you will see what I mean.

Like many Hill dwellers, I am not a native Washingtonian or even a Southerner so I don’t always “get” the local cultural folkways. I grew up in Saskatoon, a small mid-western city in the middle of nowhere, north of the 49th parallel, where 40 below zero on Christmas Day is not unknown and people buck up with the fact that “at least it is a dry cold.” (Second favourite local tag line: “at least the sun is shining.” Yeah, well it is so cold that your car battery is completely dead, the dog refuses to go outside, and everyone – male & female – looks like the Michelin man when they do go out, but at least the sun is shining…) When people decorated their houses for Christmas, it was pretty subdued. (And let’s be honest here, in my neighbourhood there were no menorahs and Kwanza was unheard of.) We thought it rather fancy when our parents put coloured lights along the roof line of our houses. Occasionally in a neighbour’s front yard you would see a plywood Santa that Dad made and the kids painted. You could only see this objet d’art in daylight or when the outside light at the front door was on. Some blocks were slightly more dramatic putting on a thematic display – Candy Cane Lane, Bell Crescent – but again these were uniform home-made cutouts, a little cheesy but definitely cute. Granted this was in the Stone Age but I’m willing to bet that many of you would agree that the ghosts of Christmas past were a lot less fussy than they are today.

Now, right after Halloween the stores start rolling out as much holiday kitsch as they have space for. Sure we complain to one another that it is way too early to be thinking about Christmas but then fall all over ourselves at the big box retailers to get the best “stuff” before anyone else can get it. Rational, sensible, conservative professionals we Washingtonians are, but when it comes to our Christmas décor rituals, it’s a slam dunk that good taste loses out to raw emotional sentiment every time.

Check this: $149 will get you a “4-pc. grapevine-style sleigh-set with motion” that is covered in little lights. You won’t want to forget the accompanying “grapevine-style buck and doe with motion” that has even more teeny lights for an additional $49. Throw in the “4-pc holographic indoor/outdoor train set with chasing lights” for a mere $29 and you are well on your way to having your own personal winter wonderland. But wait! You still need Old St. Nick or at least a snowman to complete your diorama. For a measly $49 you can have a “42-inch twinkling snowman” with a red bow, top hat, and scraggly arms that if you squint might look like real sticks that fell from your “6-foot downswept twig tree” (with more lights, of course), that too was just $49. Now you are all set having enough wattage in front of your house to light the entire Capitol dome, to say nothing of the dizzying array of perpetual motion animals that could, if harnessed, run an artificial snow machine if you could just get your hands on one!

I’m just asking, but what is the deal with Santa these days? I mean when I was little, Santa rocked; I loved going to the Bay with my Mum (that’s the Hudson’s Bay Co. for those of you not from God’s country), dressed up in a red velvet dress with lace around the collar to get my picture taken with the Big Guy. The Bay was the best place to visit Santa because you also got a little white ceramic bell to tie onto the zipper of your jacket that made little tinkling sounds when you moved just so. Now that I am a teeny bit older & hopefully wiser (although there are those who may dispute that) I think Santa is a very existential dude. However, I really could live without seeing him in every retail outlet from Baby Gap to Midas Muffler, and certainly I would die happy if I never again saw him bobbing up and down in all of his 25 foot tall glory in the parking lot of just about any mall, grocery store, or car dealership you can name.

Not to be overly critical of the sacred, but I need to know: what’s with the over-the-top Vegas inspired manger scenes you see in front yards and some churches? Is it necessary to have quite so many multi-coloured spotlights poised on the crèche? Did the angels really wear tinsel on their heads? I know there were animals in the stable, but reindeer? In Bethlehem? And honestly! Do you really think it is appropriate for Bing Crosby to be crooning White Christmas to the Baby Jesus? I’m just sayin’ …

In all seriousness though, no one loves the holiday season and a festive décor more than I do. I adore sparkly twinkle lights on a real fir tree placed strategically in the front window so passers-by can admire it from the street (giving you an indoor-outdoor decorative action -- a nice two-fer as it were); underneath should be beautifully wrapped parcels (done by the nice church ladies at the mall) evoking memories of the 15 different unsolicited Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma catalogues received since Halloween; hand stitched, monogrammed stockings (at only $50 each) hanging from the fireplace mantle; and best of all, billions of cookies and gooey squares you couldn’t possibly eat but spent the last 4 weeks baking.

Any of this sounding familiar? I knew it! Santa told me you would understand. I saw him picking up a few things at Frager’s last week …

DOG*matic

An earlier version of this story appeared in Voice of the Hill, April 2005.


You know, a few years ago I realized I was probably the only person on the Hill without a dog. Everywhere I looked there were pooches frolicking, wagging, slobbering, barking, meeting friends for lunch on Tunnicliffe’s patio. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs and really wished I had one myself until I discovered that owning a dog is a whole lot different now from when I was a kid. (You remember, back when dogs slept right on the floor and the pooper-scooper was your Dad’s lawnmower?) Today you need a diploma from the “right” obedience school, regular trips to the grooming salon (because god forbid your pup has guck in its teeth), hypo-allergenic doggie beds, and of course, low carb, vegetarian, or even kosher pet food. The same brand of Dr Ballard’s in a can every night just ain’t gonna cut it any more for today’s “well socialized” dog.

This whole thing started for me in March 2005 when I spent a weekend in New York celebrating my birthday with some urgently needed retail therapy. To my surprise, almost everywhere I went there were dogs – on the street, in coffee shops and hotel lobbies, and even in the Barney’s mother ship where some crazed woman was dragging around the teeniest dog-like critter (and that is being overly generous) as a fashion accessory. It was on a long pink leash and was trying to scurry around the very crowded aisle near the concierge desk, just like it was at home (and in hindsight, I think Barney’s may have been its second home.) I was horrified that someone was going to accidentally squash it with their $1,800 four- inch heeled, suede designer winter boots and no one would even notice. This got me wondering: did that go on in DC too? Had Capitol Hill become over-run with designer pets and child surrogates of the four legged kind and I hadn’t even noticed? On my return to DC, I decided to set up an independent, non-partisan research study to check out a dog’s life on the Hill.

My research officially began at Lincoln Park, the former 24 hour-a-day full service drug market. I lived in that ‘hood for five years in the late 1990s and let me tell you that back in the day, the local wildlife trended more to closer to the ground hungry little critters with long tails, if you catch my drift, than to frisky chocolate labs bounding after tennis balls. In spring 2005, the Park was already Dog Central, the place where many locals went to exercise Fido while making plans for Friday nite.

Dogs definitely were all over the Hill and in big numbers, but anyone who lives on the Hill today surely will testify to the shift in demographics both human and animal in and around Lincoln Park. On any given day now, you will find mostly mommies, daddies, or nannies pushing kids in baby strollers, and laughing at their happy waggy-tailed dogs. Frisbees are flying, dogs are rolling in the grass, and kids are squealing with total delight at the spectacle (well, the playground with the cool monkey bars and sandbox doesn’t hurt either.) It is the picture of the American Dream sans white picket fence. In the early evening the crowd changes slightly as the single working people come out to walk their dogs and catch up with the local gossip. Not so many toddlers at this time of day but plenty of joggers and pets jumping up and down as they greet their long lost pals they haven’t seen since at least the day before. There’s a very high energy level which ramps up as more dogs and people join the mix until near dusk when even the dogs want to go home and chill.

There are several of these so-called dog-friendly parks on the Hill now and people seem to be making good use of them. I talked to one woman who flat out told me that she got a dog to meet men. I’m willing to bet the farm (the kennel?) that she is not alone on that front.

As for the dogs, well you’ve just got to see these puppies yourself to believe it. I mean, some of them are better dressed than the human at the other end of the leash. There’s the fluffy little white dog with the Burberry sweater, and the shiny black lab with the matching Coach leash and collar, and once in a while, some really foofoo dog wearing teeny rubber boots. There are far more pit bull looking dogs than there used to be, but the labs and the shaggy tailed dogs definitely are in the majority.

As part of the original research study, I visited Doolittle’s Chateau Animaux at Eastern Market. Ashley and Judy were holding down the fort when I arrived one sunny, warm Saturday afternoon. The store was a tad over stuffed with giant bags of food, vitamins, toys, kennels, breath and gas relief tablets (!), and other unexpected things. Ashley quickly explained that demand for their services (retail and pet grooming) had grown so much over the past few years, they were about to move to their new space on Barracks Row which they have been in now for several years. I looked around and was particularly taken by the mini-couches for pets. Ashley told me they were a hot new item that was about to sell out. Now this was a nice couch. Looked rather plush to me. Immediately I could picture some nattily groomed dog curled up on it in front of a flat-screen TV watching Animal Planet and munching on “Grandma Lucy’s Freeze Dried Meatball Treats” or “Daisy Delight’s Baco Bit Bears.”

On to Pawticulars on 8th Street where I met Jennifer, the Top Dog (it says so on her business card.) This is when things really started to come together for me as I realized that the phrase “it’s a dog’s life” is based in truth. While visiting with Jennifer, I don’t know how many pooches and people came through the store. Not one of them left without buying a treat. On the counter were elaborately decorated doggie cookies shaped like baseballs, donuts, bon-bons, and of course, bones among other shapes. Pawticulars also seemed to do a good business in the doggie birthday field; there was a large cooler with cakes (carob-banana chip, for example) that you can order for Rover’s birthday party. Then again, for the more casual celebration, like for Allie who dropped in on her 5th birthday with “Mom” and “Dad”, there was the giant cookie bone with Happy Birthday written on it. I also met Coffee who came in to get a halter and Bessie who was in the market for a new T-shirt. Jennifer explained that some dogs come in every day for a treat. She suspects that Barney Bush (the former First Dog) had either been in the store or received a gift from there as one day out of the blue in the mail Jennifer received an autographed photo of Barney from the White House. Even in DC’s pet care market, it’s all about the political connections!

I wound up my research at Dog-Ma, DC’s first daycare for dogs. Honestly, I felt like I was in doggie paradise with Dog-Ma’s two huge yards, loads of toys, playhouse, and “swimming” pool. Years before, owner Rebecca was working 14 hour days and traveling often for work. She felt guilty about leaving her dog alone and frankly, was more than a little fed up with her job. In a total shifting of gears, she opened Dog-Ma on Virginia Avenue just past the Marine Barracks. Today this very busy doggie day-care caters to well-behaved, socialized (don’t you love that term?), healthy dogs. Some come every day, some once in a while, and some even vacation at Dog-Ma while their family hits the slopes or lounges at the beach. Since opening Dog-Ma, Rebecca and her staff have cared for thousands of dogs; only one decided that the grass really was greener on the other side of the freeway. That little pup was retrieved unharmed much to everyone’s relief.

While I agree that this is far from a comprehensive study (a moderate government grant or appropriation would have helped, I’m telling you), it does give a glimpse into some of the services and products available to Hill dwellers and their pampered pooches.

On a personal note, I’ve decided that the good news is that I want to come back in my next lifetime as a household pet of a senior Hill staffer whose spouse works at a non-profit, and they have one, maybe two young kids. The bad news is that they probably couldn’t afford a dog by then because pet care costs and expectations are rising rapidly. I’d likely end up in some West Virginia farm chasing cows all day. Charming. Let it be known that I am definitely not a cow pattie kinda gal, even if I were a dog.