First snow snow day for the equine kids

For 3 years running, my family doctor has told me that my colesteral readings and my blood pressure indicate that I have a 10% chance of having some kind of cardiovascular event in the next ten years. Of course, this probability can be reduced by medication (complete with side effects), or I could start exercising. I guess you could say that I've been warned, and I'm not really interested in the side effects or the cardiovascular event, so I dragged my sorry ass out of bed this morning and spent a half hour on the elliptical trainer - something I pledged I would start doing every weekday morning for the rest of my life. We'll see how long that lasts. When I left the house at 6:45, I was pleasantly surprised to see a thin skim of white powder everywhere, and of course thought that I could probably workout behind a snow shovel, but quickly realized that I need a routine that I can count on regardless of the weather. Speaking of routine, I then went down to our newly restored stables and put my big horsey kids out in their snow covered pasture. Horses love routine. My Spirited Anglo-Arab Sophie and her more even tempered friend Noche have seen snow before, and took it all in stride, but Sarah and her new pal Titan, both born in June of this year, had their first experience today, but neither seemed phased by it. Sarah did curl up her lip a bit as if she could better understand this stuff if she could spell it, but quickly turned her attention to finding food. I've discovered that owning and boarding a few horses (or any pets for that matter) involves positive routine, dependence, a little bit of exercise and lots of potential for enjoyment.

Worries

The pastel above, by artist Paul Murray, hangs over the front desk at Ste. Anne's. I purchased a copy at an art exhibit many years ago at the Buckhorn Fine Art Festival. Most of the art on display was of wildlife and outdoor scenes, so this particular piece really stood out for me. Aunt Emily's eyes say so much. I placed it at the front desk because it serves as a reminder of our patron Ste. Anne - the grandmother of Jesus. I was lucky enough to know both of my grandmothers, Nano (maternal) and Grandma (paternal). They were as different as night and day, but they both shared one quality that seems to be genetically hardwired into grandmothers; unconditional love for their children and grandchildren. They showed their love in different ways, just as they lived their lives. Grandma lived in Niagara Falls in a modest apartment, while Nano was a little more up market in her accommodation, with a farm near Oakville, and a condo in Rosedale. I love them both, think of them often and miss them. Another grandmother friend of mine sent me an email recently. Her son has been diagnosed with a terrible disease that will probably subject him to an early and difficult departure from this life. This has been a source of great pain for my friend. She would do anything to take her son's place or to improve her son's prognosis, but at this point, all she can do is hope and pray. Like so many, my friend and her son suffer in solitude - they don't want others to know about their struggle. Like you, I have other friends who are suffering as a result of as yet incurable disease, many of whom suffer alone for fear of what others might say or think. I've often wondered what would happen if we spent as much on medical research as we spend on the military. Which is a greater enemy, a cruel disease or a despot dictator? My grandmother friend's request was a simple one - go to this website, and sign a charter in support of stem cell research.

For the Fallen

On this day last year, I was upbraided by a guest who was appalled that Ste. Anne's didn't acknowledge Remembrance Day in any significant way. My initial response was to be defensive, after all, I had attended the ceremony at the cenotaph in Grafton, I had worn red every Friday, I purchased my poppy and I felt that the way in which a person acknowledges the sacrifices of our war heroes was a personal choice. Looking back, I know that I can never even begin to comprehend the range of emotions felt not only by those who have served our country, but also by their loved ones who have been left behind to proudly mourn their loss and celebrate their achievement. There are so many cliches that I could use; "war is a terrible thing", "never again", but all I know for sure is that I hope I never have to know the fear, the pain, the grief, the loss, or the pride of fighting for my country. All I can do - all the vast majority of us who benefit from the sacrifices made by our men and women in uniform can do is to pause and give thanks. Today, Robert, a principled young man who works here at the spa and has become fast friends with many staff and guests, was up at the crack of dawn, on his knees pinning hundreds of poppies in the courtyard at the spa in memory of his father, who fought in the war. Thank you Robert for helping us find a dignified way to acknowledge this special day. I suppose I still feel that the acknowledgement of this special day should be a personal choice, but a subtle little nudge to those who haven't been privileged to experience true loss and sacrifice for the greater good is perhaps the least we can do.

Are you God's gift to the world?

I am an amateur photographer, in fact, for the most part, I'm an amateur everything. I'm one of those people who tends to take an interest in things, but rarely to develop an interest to it's full potential. Fortunately, I am blessed to have people around me who are much more thorough in their pursuits. One of those people is Katriona, a member of our Ste. Anne's marketing team. Among other things, "Kat" is a "brilliant" photographer. For several years, I have tried to capture the sun in some of her most beautiful moments, as experienced here in the Northumberland Hills. My photographs never quite capture the magnificence of these events. My body clock is still set to 6 hours ahead, so I've witnessed some incredible sun risings these past few days, and today, with the flick of a few dials, Kat helped me capture (one of) God's gifts to the world.

Leaving the Rock (Thank God!)

When most Canadians think of a place called "The Rock", we tend to think of Newfoundland. For 10 million Britons, (who for some reason unknown to me, travel there annually) "The Rock" refers to Gibraltar, a little piece of land at the southern tip of Spain that they hang onto as a "British protectorate". A friend of mine has a friend who has been posted there for the past little while, so I thought it would be a good jumping off point for a foray into southwestern Spain. As it turned out, I was wrong. Getting to Spain through Gibraltar was a big mistake - next time I will fly directly to Madrid or Barcelona, or even to Lisbon if I want to "do Spain". Aside from the inflated cost of visiting any part of the United Kingdom, the last leg of our journey home left me bewildered as to how so many things could go wrong on one day. Now here I am tending to place the blame on the Brits, but I suppose one could just as easily find fault with the Arabs who flew planes into the World Trade Centre for making air travel for those of us who don't like our planes to crash into buildings such a hassle, or the Spanish GibAir agents who manned the gate at the Gibraltar airport for so badly bungling everything, but really, there is enough blame to go around for the whole human race for letting a lack of trust and insatiable greed make what should be pleasurable and relaxing (travel) into the complete pain that it has become. Here's what happened. We were booked on an EasyJet flight from Gibraltar to Gatwick, scheduled to leave at 11:40. Like good travellers, we arrived at the airport 2 hours prior to departure. Not a soul in sight. The GibAir/Easyjet agents finally arrived around 10:00 and started checking us in. Once we got through security, we sat in the boarding lounge for 2 hours, where the odd announcement was made about waiting for more coaches to arrive. We just assumed these were the coaches that would take us from the terminal to the airplane, as it was pouring rain and gusting outside. What we were never told, was that these were coaches to take us on a 2 hour bus ride to Malaga airport because our plane wasn't able to land due to bad weather. The pilot who eventually flew us home was the first to fill us in on anything. He said that Gibraltar airport is an old military airport with outdated equipment, a short runway, and a big rock making landing difficult when there is wind cand rain in the mix. So off we went, like lambs to the slaughter to reclaim our bags so they could be loaded onto the coaches. Then we got on the coaches, while the bus drivers and the gate agents chatted amongst themselves. When they were finally ready to leave, they made a 2 minute trip to the Gibraltar/Spain border, where we had to get off the bus, claim our bags, drag them across the border, through Spanish customs and security, and then load them and ourselves back on the bus. Off we went to Malaga. As much as this is a lovely drive along the coast, our bus was so loaded with people, and pulling a trailer full of luggage no less, that we didn't ever break the speed limit of 100 k/h as we slowly chugged our way along. When we finally arrived at the airport in Malaga, we were offloaded - again, no explanation, no assistance, we just followed the rest of the sheep into the airport, where we joined a line of at least 200 people being served by 2 Easyjet agents. It took us an hour to get checked in again, and then off we went to the gate, where there was yet another long line to get onto the plane, as the gate wasn't yet opened. We finally were boarded and the cabin crew and Captain began a series of apologies and explanations, but by this time we had been waiting to leave for 8 hours. Someone at Easyjet decided to offer complimentary bar service, but because no one usually buys their crap, they ran out of food long before everyone was served. Arriving at Gatwick, we were put into a holding pattern, and then when we landed put onto another bus, into the terminal where we lined up one more time to get through British customs and immigration. From there we took a taxi to the Hotel I thought I had booked, an airport Marriott, paid 90GPB (equivalent to 180CND), only to find out that we were at the wrong Marriott - apparently there are 3 at Heathrow. Off we went, only to join the end of another line up to check in. I am so looking forward to getting home. Canada may have Stephen Harper to contend with, but like Dorothy, I'm going to be clicking my heals, closing my eyes as I say "There's no place like home".

If only I had the courage to try

A week ago now, we landed in London for a little R&R. Despite all the hassles and expense of travelling though London, I´ve become hooked on the daytime overseas flight. I can´t stand flying overnight and arriving like a zombie, usually taking two or three days to adjust to the time change. However, I think I´ve seen the sights of London enough now, and was happy to move on from there to Gibraltar - although not being enough a world traveller to know that I was landing into a British protectorate, we spent 2 more days enjoying the worst traits of Britain and Spain rolled into this tourist trap. Finally we were on the road to Tarifa, a beautiful oceanside town, once known for an unusually high rate of suicides, sometimes attributed to the never ending winds, which of course make it an ideal location for kite surfing (pictured above). This looks like an incredible amount of fun - a sport I´d love to try, but I just haven´t found the courage to give it a try. When I get home I´m absolutely going to start working out, really, I mean it, so I will have the confidence to try some of these things. The wind really did howl endlessly, but the sun was also non stop, and Tarifa is a charming place to spend a couple of nights. We were tempted to take the 35 minute ferry crossing to Tangiers, but in the end, decided that it might be just one big haggling market, a little too much for this trip. From there we travelled further into the Spanish countryside with a day trip to Arcos de la Frontera, and Ronda, two equally spectacular towns with stunning views and natural beauty. We then took a trip along the coast to Cadiz, but decided it was too much of a city for our taste, and instead made our way back to Conil, where we found a great little Apartmento Hotel for not very much money, close to walking, beaches lots of sun, sand and doing nothing. Aside from checking work emails once a day, I think we are starting to unwind, and getting lots of good ideas for importation back to Ste. Anne´s. The Spanish people are very nice, and the food is wonderful. The only depressing event has been a rather poor review posted on Ste. Anne´s by a recent guest on TripAdvisor. If you are a true fan, please take a minute and post something positive for me. After 20 years of investing love and sweat into a business, it really hurts when someone takes their best shot at ruining your reputation. Why don´t they just call me when they aren´t happy? Oh well.

The Roseneath Fair

I was raised on a beef farm. Originally we had Black Angus cattle; later on we migrated to Charolais. At the time, I wasn't much for farming. It seemed as though we kids were raised for the exclusive purpose of providing free labour for this endevour, and more often than not chores seemed to interfere with play time, later with party time. In hindsight, many good life lessons were learned growing up on a farm. Strange then that I should find myself bidding at a steer auction this weekend at the Roseneath Fall Fair. Earlier in the year, I had been talked into buying 10 calves to raise here at the spa in response to the high prices we were paying for meat. Other than counting them every once in a while, my involvement has been pretty limited as they seem pretty content just to eat grass day in and day out. Our champion grass cutter at the spa, Evan, and his brother Colin invited me to attend in hopes that I would bid up the price on their prized steer, Urban Legend. Attending the livestock auction at the fair required a little more intimacy, than raising the 10 calves had to this point. I had to get into the ring, poke and prod the prospects; (some of whom wanted to sniff and lick my hands and shoes), and ask a few questions about how they would get from the ring onto the grill. Once the bidding started, my adrenaline kicked in, and before I knew it, I was proud owner of 2 hefty looking steers, one being the show champion! In a month or so, if all goes to plan, they'll show up on the menu at the spa. I know that's not a very nice thought, but our guests love their meat, nothing beats locally raised food, and I'm not about to become a vegetarian. For a brief moment, I considered taking my two new mooing friends back to the spa to pasture, but one of the real farmers talked me out of that option, as apparently they are at their prime for eating. We also checked out the sheep shearing, the vegetables, the pig races, the dog show, and the equestrian display. On our way out we ran into some friends enjoying a ride on the Roseneath Carousel. If you've never experienced a real country fair, you really should. Next weekend is the Norwood Fair - there's something there for everyone, and it's a great education for the kids. Check it out.

Use it, or lose it

Living in Ontario, we are blessed with so many opportunities for recreation, entertainment, spiritual fulfillment, fine dining - you name it. Last week I drove to Stratford and thoroughly enjoyed "West Side Story". What energy and talent erupted on the stage in this incredible performance. And yet, Stratford has not had a great year - crowds have been down, once again, due to the "economy". I don't think I've been to Stratford since high school, when I believe we went to see Romeo and Juliet. Walking into the theatre brought on a strange and distant deja vu kind of feeling for me. Until I read my program, I didn't realize that West Side Story was an interpretation of Romeo and Juliet. Somehow, I had it mixed up in my mind with Midnight Cowboy - go figure! Over the past several months, as I've followed a small group of runners to various marathons from Picton, to Belleville, to Toronto, and Peterborough, I've also had an opportunity to witness incredible feats of athletic achievement, and to be in cities and towns bursting with pride at their growth and creativity. And yet, crowds are down, due to the "economy". In my travels, I've also visited several different churches, St. Michael's Cathedral in Toronto, St. Gregory the Great in Picton, St. Peter in Chains in Peterborough, St. Michael's the Archangel in Belleville, and again, crowds are down, but perhaps not as a result of the economy. After 2,000 years the Catholic Church risks losing it's relevance with followers, but who is to blame for that? It seems to me that we Ontarians have a tendency to become complacent, to take what we have for granted. If we want to continue to have great opportunities for recreation, entertainment, spiritual fulfillment, fine dining, and you name it, we have to speak up, vote with our feet, enthusiastically support, encourage and engage ourselves in these aspects of society that define us. Take your TV remote control and toss it. Get up off the couch and get involved - make a difference.

Walking home one night

Most Fridays, I dress down a bit and try to get out of my office routine for the day. Not that I dress up the other days of the week; long gone are the days when I would pull a fresh white shirt out of the wrapper and choose one of a small selection of ties to match one of a small selection of suits, black shoes and knee socks. Thank God for that. I usually try to seek out some kind of physical activity to give my mind a bit of a break. Not that physical work doesn't require thought; I guess I'm in search of a change, a break in the routine so to speak. I also try to wear a red shirt as a reminder of and a tribute to the men and women who are serving our country in the war on terror, although I'm sure there is much more that I could be doing in that regard. As it turned out, this Friday there wasn't any specific physical chore calling out my name, so I opted to return a leased car (having reached the end of it's term) to the dealership . I didn't make any arrangements for a ride home, thinking I'd just wing it. The dealership was at the corner of Division and Elgin Streets in Cobourg. After dropping off the keys and waiting for the salesman to take a reading of the mileage, I started walking south on Division towards the lake. It was a beautiful day, sun shining, nice breeze, clear blue sky. I passed KFC (without going in), St. Michael's Church (also without stopping), thought about walking down to the waterfront, but instead made a left at Hwy. 2, or King St., as it is known in Cobourg. I popped into the Green Machine and withdrew enough cash to get me through the weekend, and to take a cab back home. I briefly contemplated the cab ride, the stale smell of cigarettes, the small talk and the cost. I kept walking. Before I hit the edge of town, I sent a text message to a friend hinting that I might need a ride. Subconsciously, I think that more than anything, I was testing the strength of the friendship. A new art gallery caught my eye, so I popped in, hoping that I wouldn't attract the attention of the volunteer attendant. Just as I thought I was in the clear to make a clean getaway, she asked me if I wouldn't mind signing the guest book. I complied, thinking that this would be quick and painless. Just then, my PDA vibrated. A response to my text test was pending. At that very moment, the attendant, who had circled around me politely appreciating the works of art, read my entry in the guest book and exclaimed "Are you the famous Jim Corcoran?" I could feel myself turning red, knowing that my escape plan had been foiled. I asked her what she meant by "famous", assuming she was referring to recent spate of articles in the local newspaper about my dispute with my fellow Catholics, but no, she was referring to my association with Ste. Anne's. As it turned out she had been a regular guest about 20 odd years ago, before I had taken over. In those days, there were a number of groups who would take over the whole place for a weekend of tennis, gastronomy, cocktails and boomerfun. My claim to fame with those people was that I spoiled all that by introducing the spa concept and hiring a chef. I've always sensed that those groups were not some of my biggest fans. In any case, we chatted each other up politely, and she commented on viewing the most beautiful baby in the world as having been one of her last memories of Ste. Anne's - I'm assuming she is referring to my niece Jenna, now in her final year at U of T. How time flies. I made my escape, and immediately checked my text messages. I got kind of a lukewarm response to my hint for a ride, to which I replied "Sounds like you're busy - the walk will do me good." Now I was committed. I stopped and bought a bottle of cold blue liquid and set off on my 15 km. journey. It was 3:30. Walking along Hwy 2 between Cobourg and Grafton isn't a walk I'd recommend. The shoulder of the road and the speeding cars are a little too close for comfort. I noticed a few people pass by who I knew, who didn't stop, and a couple of people who I didn't notice pass by, actually turned around and pulled over to ask me if I wanted a ride. One friend passed by and then called me on my cell to see if I wanted a ride, but I sensed he really wasn't going my way. I declined all the offers and pressed on. Walking just to get from point A to point B, with no purpose other than the simplest mode of transportation, affords one the opportunity to think things through. I made full use of this opportunity. Three hours later, as I entered the town of Grafton, I was dead tired. Everything was aching and the worst part of the walk loomed ahead of me in the form of a steep 4 km climb to the spa. I stopped and picked up a newspaper, I sat down on a short wall and was even more stiff when I got up. Too tired to care about the repercussions of defeat, I sent one more text message to my friend saying "Don't you know, no means yes?" Just as I sent it, another friend stopped by and offered me a ride up the hill. This time, I took it. Two days later, the pain and stiffness is gone but the memories and the lessons of my long walk almost home are still with me. Now I know that I can almost do it - and I'm sure that if I didn't take the ride, I would have made it.

Africa comes to Rice Lake

This past week was a little stressful as one of the respondents to the HRC case decided to use his office and all of the Catholic Churches in the Peterborough diocese to establish his authority, and my guilt, and to spread his version of recent events that is substantially different than what I perceive the facts to be (sound familiar?). So, a trip around Northumberland County to visit some of the artists displaying their work in the annual Studio Tour was a welcome diversion. Our first stop was at a barn that has been beautifully restored and converted to a studio to view the works of Martha Robinson. Martha's family and my family have been friends since the beginning of time and we love her work. Many years ago my mom and sister gave me one of Martha's portraits of a sheep, which I treasure dearly. Some of Martha's work is currently on exhibition at Ste. Anne's. From there we made our way up Harwood Road to drop in on the studio of Graeme Coxon, another long time family friend. Graeme specializes in digital images of plants - absolutely stunning work. For the last stop on our tour, we made our way to the opening of ZimArt's 10th public exhibition, on until September 27th. We have been lucky enough to have some of ZimArt collection on display at Ste. Anne's over this past year, and two of the artists, Biggie Chikodzi and Singi Chiota where artists in residence in our walled courtyard just a couple of weeks ago. Art is such a wonderful gift. The prices attached to pieces of art can sometimes be hard to swallow, but really, when you experience a piece of art, it becomes a part of you, and when you own a piece of art, you take a piece of the artist with you. Well worth the price, if you ask me. If you can find the time over the next couple of weeks, take a drive up to the outdoor ZimArt Exhibit, and mark your calendar for next year's Northumberland Studio Tour.

Crossing the finish line

I took this picture a few weeks ago while visiting Notre Dame Basilica in Montreal. Until today, it, along with a few other memories of that little holiday, were captives of a handy little digital camera (that will work under water), that I used my last few RBC points to acquire. Today, I used the same camera to capture a shot of a friend crossing the finish line in what was supposed to be a triathlon, but in fact ended up being a biathlon due to choppy conditions at the Cobourg beach. There are so many stories woven into this first paragraph, but I'm afraid that if I tried to tell them all, I would lose your attention. So, I will focus on the most important message. My friend, the runner, has been running with another friend. Both started running in an effort to improve their overall health, and to lose some weight. I've never been much of a runner, and as far as exercise is concerned, I always use the excuse that I'd like to work out with someone, rather than work out alone, so I don't work out. As a result, for the first time in my life, I tipped the scales at 190 lbs this morning. I have never weighed this much. I should probably weigh 175. Instead of having the swimmers build that I always wanted, I have the little ponch that I always dreaded having. I can find comfort in the fact that I'm in the majority though - I love to eat, I'm great at making excuses, and I'm always at the finish line cheering on the runners and taking their pictures, instead of being in the race. The picture above is a depiction of a guy who definitely got in the race, and crossed the finish line. In 33 short years He made such an impression on people that we're still talking about him 2,000 years later. At almost 51 years, I'm pretty sure that I've passed the half way point of my life. I know that I have been blessed with many gifts, but I feel as though I'm still waiting for the starters pistol. Years ago, one of my goals was to go to Europe. For years I fretted about the language, the cost, the flight, the different currencies, and for years I allowed this fretting to keep me from experiencing Europe. And then, one day I was on my way to meet some friends in Paris. When I later explained to someone how I overcame my fears, I remember saying "it was easy, it all started by picking up the phone". So much in life is like that, whether it's running in a marathon, or being a Messiah, it all starts by taking one step in the right direction. What will be your next step?

A week from hell in paradise

Summer is always a busy time at Ste. Anne's, and this year has been no exception. With the reintroduction of our "Diva for a Day" $99 day spa, our guest visits are actually up significantly over last year - something I feel very proud of, given the doom and gloom we are subjected to on a daily basis regarding the economy. There is no doubt that consumers are very price sensitive these days, so offering the best value proposition is more important than ever. However, it just goes to show that even in tough economic times, people still crave relaxation through the gift of healing at the hands of their fellow beings. None-the-less, one of our commercial lenders has decided that they don't want to be in the "hospitality" business anymore, so they've given us the requisite notice to go out and find a new lender, a costly and frustrating exercise, meaning that I get to spend more time than I would like with lawyers and number crunchers - yahoo! Please say a prayer for me. The extreme heat and humidity has resulted in a few requests for more air conditioning, but for the most part, our guests have enjoyed and embraced the onset of summer (late as it is), and have used the pool to cool down. A couple of weeks ago, we were hit by a pretty violent thunderstorm - (before the one that caused so much devastation in the cities of Vaughan and Durham). We had at least 10 trees down, one of which landed right on top of the power lines, leaving us in the dark for most of the night. Once again, our great friends at OPG had us up and running before the sun came up - thanks guys! However, these huge downpours can sometimes have a negative impact on wells, so following the storm, we had to make sure all of our drinking water, and the water we use in our spa treatments was safe to drink. Ever since the tragic consequences of Walkerton, the Health Unit has been saddled with the responsibility for making sure that all businesses serving drinking water to the public are taking regular samples of their water and responding to any adverse results. These folks at the Health Unit seem to have a love affair with chlorine, but to be honest, I'm not sure I'd rather take on a little water borne bug than be subjected to a known carcinogen. To make matters worse, right in the middle of the last thunderstorm, one of wells either took a direct lightening hit, or some kind of electrical malfunction resulting in a dead short, knocking out the pump and cutting off our water supply. So once again, there we were in the dark, rain pouring down, pulling a 50 lb. pump and 100 feet of pipe filled with water up from the depths of our main supply well. Thanks to a great bit of teamwork everything was fixed up before guests started arriving for their spa treatments. Today the sun is shining brightly, smiles are all around, the water is sparkling and clean, and I'm alive. What more could I ask for?

Honestly, I'm not choking him!

Last week, we were invited up to a friend's home/cottage up on Sturgeon Lake, near Fenelon Falls. As I child, I spent my summers playing on our family farm in Nashville, which, according to my dad, had everything and more than a trip to the cottage - a pond (as opposed to a lake), barns, a river, fields and forests. None-the-less, the 2 or 3 times that I was invited up to a "real cottage" in Muskoka or Haliburton holds special memories for me. Our 24 hours at "the Point", as the locals call it, was no exception. We took a walk around and oogled the other homes - some palatial, some quite modest, some occupied by famous lawyers, and a couple even haunted! We sat by the water and watched the waves, Massie even went in for a swim, We enjoyed a wonderful meal, lively conversation and lots of laughs crowded around a table flanked by new found friends. Liz, our hostess with the mostess could not have been more hospitable or accommodating. Her and her sisters are like a barrel of monkeys - just a hoot - and such great people. We were also introduced to a little Yorkie - his name escapes me now, but he was quite cute, and of course everybody fell in love with him. He was making the permanent move to "the Point", having left behind his new family back in "the shwa" (Oshawa). Before leaving we agreed that we would take 2 of his babies, one for mom, and one for another friend who recently lost his cat and moved his mom into a nursing home, so very much in need of some company. Mom loves her new chum, and Rusty loves mom. By the way, for those of you who know my mom, it seems as though she has pretty much recovered from whatever knocked her down a month or so ago. Her doctor thinks it was a virus, while the homeopath thinks it was a magnesium deficiency. Truth is we don't really know, but we're all happy to have her back to her old self again.

New York

I don't often get a chance to get away in the summer, but I had a few free days, and I felt like a little break was in order, so I hopped on the 401 with a couple of friends and we set off for the "Big Apple". Although this drive can easily be made in a day, I prefer to break it in two so that it is a little more enjoyable. The first night was spent on the eastern edge of the Finger Lakes in a pretty little town called Skaneateles. My friend the GPS lady took us through some interesting parts of Syracuse to get there, but we got there, none-the-less. I had booked us in at the Mirbeau Spa - always try to incorporate a little competitive analysis into every trip, if possible. This is a lovely spa in a lovely town, well worth the drive. I would love to pick the whole place up and drop it into the middle of Ste. Anne's property - I just love the feel of it, very well thought out. Next morning, got a good start to our day and made time on secondary roads so that we had time to stop in Old Greenwich, Connecticut - a town I spent 2 of my teen years in during my dad's stint at IBM World Trade in White Plains, New York. My sweet sister Anne welcomed us into her home in Westport for two nights. Anne was instrumental in helping me get the spa started back in the early 90s. She is a collector of many things, and she has a wonderful sense of humour. She and her husband Paul have two cottages in New Hampshire that they now rent out to wayward travellers, so that has kept them very busy fixing them up and furnishing them in Anne's very warm and inviting fashion. Paul drives a truck that runs on used french fry grease, so he spends early mornings on the prowl for fuel. Gives new meaning to "chip wagon". Seems there is a whole cult movement towards this kind of thing. I think he was planning to attend an event called "Greasefest" - interesting. Next day we took the train into Manhattan - a very civilized way to get in and out of the city. It was raining, so we decided to spend the day in museums - the Cloisters, way up town, and The Frick, in mid-town. Both were incredibly beautiful and a wonderful way to spend a rainy day in the city. The next morning we set out for home, but again decided to break up the drive with a stop in a charming little town, Dorset Vermont. All of the homes on the main street where white clapboard and neat as a pin. We also took note of the United Church where a sign humbly proclaimed that "all welcome" since 1784; what a concept! Of all the meals we had while we were away, dinner at the Dorset Inn was the best by far (not counting meals by Anne, or course!). For the last leg of our journey we headed to Montreal, always a favorite of mine. As usual, the city was alive with joie de vivre, and a plethora of street festivals. To get home we took the 401 to the Thousand Island Parkway, stopped for a quick gab fest with my friend Jacques, the ever gracious innkeeper at Trintiy House Inn in Gananaque, through downtown Kingston, then along "prison row" - the Bath Road to the Glenora Ferry, into Picton, Bloomifield, Wellington, Brighton and Highway 2 to Grafton. We are truly blessed to live in such a beautiful part of the world. I left most of the navigating to my GPS friend, and I can honestly say her route through Ontario, New York, Connecticut, Vermont and Quebec was, for the most part a full of eye pleasing scenery. You really don't have to go far from home to relax and enjoy a little time away.

The History of Ste. Anne's Spa

As told be Patricia Sullivan, 1991

"In the spring of 1858, Samuel Massey arranged two private mortgages totalling $1,000, and the construction of a stone house began on Lot 23, Concession 2. The home which Samuel and Mary named "Sunnyside" was built in the Georgian Style of balanced proportions. This style was so predominant in the province throughout the nineteenth century it became known as the Ontario House, also called the Loyalist Vernacular. However, the Massey house did adhere to one important principle of the Regency style then in vogue: the dramatic site for the house was well and carefully chosen. At the south edge of a plateau, it commanded a breathtaking view. The walls of the Massey house, 2 feet thick and made from locally quarried rose quartz and pink limestone support the roof, a technique usually attributed to Scottish stonemasons.The gabled roof provided more headroom on the upper floor than was allowed in the roof style of earlier houses. Chimneys, at either end, balanced the exterior, as did the placement of the double-hung windows. The original front doorway, located in the middle of the longer side, was surrounded by a square transom providing extra light for the main hallway. French doors, (which may originally have been tall windows) on either side of the front door continued the symmetrical appearance. The doors and windows were all fitted with shutters.

To be continued . . .

The way church ought to be

I have received so many phone calls, emails and blog comments of support - I am quite overwhelmed. This one in particular I thought was worth publishing. they have all served to reinforce my belief in the goodness of humankind, and my belief in God's master plan for us, who He so lovingly created in His own image.

"Dear Mr. Corcoran,

I read with a saddened heart your letter in this morning's paper. Yet again another group has been turned away by what is supposed to be a non judgmental parish. I was so disturbed by the issues surrounding not allowing women on the Pulpit that I stopped going to mass for a short period of time, however, I was raised in St. Michael's parish, so with forgiveness of spirit I returned. I must say though, that this second issue stirs up the same feelings in me that the first did. When I was a younger girl, attending this same parish that I attend now with my family, I sat in a crowded pew with my Grandmother, the matriarch of our clan. The church was filled every Sunday at both masses, the Alter was filled with youngsters trying their best to remember their cues, the word of God was spoken at the podium by a different parishioner each mass and the chosen songs were heard from blocks away. That scene is no longer the case in our parish.

I must be honest about one thing that I can't get out of my memory though. Those many years ago we sat shoulder to shoulder with our fellow parishioners and new their secrets. We are a small community. Everyone has always known everyone else's "sins". We knew that the person that sat on our left would probably go home and hurt his wife that night, the person on our right would be in court again for one thing or another, the person in front of us would let his child go to school poorly dressed in the cold season but he would be in a local establishment enjoying beverages after work. Everyone has always know everyone else's personal business, it may have been talked about, it may not have been. But one thing is for certain, no one was ever turned away from the church or made to feel ostracized.

Please understand, I do not compare in any way your partnership or a women as Priest to these situations I am speaking of, I merely use them to make the point that "those who have not sinned may cast the first stone". Many people sit proud and straight in church on Sunday and then live their lives anything less than faithful the rest of the week. I think that if the Catholic Diocese and a few short minded parishioners were given the gift of judgment and were allowed to peer into peoples true identities there would be very few parishioners left that met their standards.

I look around our St. Michaels' Roman Catholic Church these many years since I sat there with my Grandmother. There are very few youngsters on the alter, the word of God is always spoken by the same few good people that give themselves up to the task mass after mass, we no longer sit shoulder to shoulder with our fellow parishioners as there is plenty of room and the chosen songs for mass are much quieter. I have to wonder if some part of the reason is that life has evolved and our Church has not. Is it not true that the teachings of our faith are being used against us and are not a few people using them to decide who is worthy of being in their presence and who is not?

I will leave you with this, my Grandmother taught our family that what goes on in ones own home is their business as long as no one is getting hurt. She was pretty evolved for an old girl but she would give Christ the credit for her behavior. When Jesus Christ walked this earth did he judge or did he embrace, if we have been listening we know the answer to that question.

Don't give up Mr. Corcoran, sit proud and sing loud, sincerely, J.B. and family.

Welcome (I think)

When one puts a welcome mat at their door, one always hopes that their threshold will be crossed by friendly visitors. One never expects that this invitation will be taken up by people who only want to cause you harm. As such, with the recent surge of visitors to my blog, I am placing this welcome sign on my blog with some conditions. If you are coming to this blog only to find snippets of my writing that you can take out of context and reprint elsewhere to represent me as something that I am not, I would respectfully ask you to leave. If you are coming with good intentions, as always, I would welcome you into my life, as this blog has always been meant as an open diary of the thoughts of a spa guy, for the enjoyment of the readers who choose to come here. For those of you who are attempting to post nasty little comments, please note that this blog is moderated, by me, and your comments will not be posted, so don't bother. Many of you have written to me personally asking for more details as to what brought about my decision to file a complaint with the Human Rights Commission. I have not been able to respond to all of your requests, so here is a short synopsis:

In July of 2008, Bishop DeAngelis appointed Father Allan Hood as Pastor of St. Michael's Roman Catholic Church in Cobourg. This parish has a history of controversy and division, most recently surrounding the Bishop's decision to ex communicate Father Edward Cachia as a result of his public support for the ordination of women into the priesthood. This diocese also has a bit a controversial past, and recent actions taken here have caused some division, but I won't get into that here. Now Father Hood knew that he would have many challenges to face in his new appointment. When he was appointed to Grafton 12 years or so ago, he walked into a very big hornet's nest, but to his credit, he put that parish back on a solid spiritual and financial foundation. When he moved to St. Michael's one of the first things that Father Hood took on was the condition of the rectory and the adoration chapel. Leaks in the roof, and years of neglect had left these facilities in need of major repair. Father Hood completed these repairs, and was able to fund the lion's share of the cost through an insurance claim, as most of them could be attributed to damage resulting from the leaking roof. It appears as though there was a small group of parishioners that were not in favour of Bishop DeAngelis' decision to appoint Father Hood to this parish. Catholics will know that this is not unusual. What makes this case a little different is that this group became very vocal and actively started making their feelings known to the Bishop. They accused Father Hood of misappropriation of funds from the restoration fund to complete the repairs to the chapel and the rectory. In fact, when Father Hood took over the parish, there was no money in the restoration fund, despite the claims of those who were charged with it's care. Instead, funds from the general fund were being diverted to the restoration. Perhaps this was the initial spark that ignited the feud between this small group of parishioners and their new pastor. However, since this issue could easily be cleared up by the year end financial audit (and in fact it was, but the group of 12 and 45 dismissed the results of the audit as hard to understand), the group decided to create a series of new complaints against their new pastor; that Father Hood had his 92 year old mother living in the rectory with him, claiming that this represented grave financial liability to the parish. They complained about the new organist and the volume of the organ at weekday mass, about Father Hood's decision to pay the children's choir a small stipend to encourage them to attend mass and practices, they complained about the vestments that he used, the way he celebrated the liturgy and the changes he made to the adoration chapel. Their complaints were not confined to minor grumblings and gossip that sometimes take place when a new pastor is appointed - they were put in writing and widely circulated in the form of a petition. These people felt that they were more qualified to run the church than their pastor, and ultimately more qualified to run the diocese than the Bishop. That is not the Catholic model. In January, the Bishop decided to address the tactics of these parishioners in a letter to all parishioners that accompanied our year end financial report. The Bishop called upon this group to stop their malicious attack of Father Hood. The group was not persuaded by the Bishop's letter and they continued their campaign of slander and libel against Father Hood. In the period leading up to Easter, they started to include fellow parishioners in their attacks. This is where I came into the picture, as they objected to my appointment as an Adult Altar Server because of assumptions they made about me and my lifestyle from reading my blog. This, along with a rehash of the original complaints about Father Hood, was put in a letter signed by a group of 12 parishioners and sent to the Bishop, the Archbishop of Kingston, and the Papal Nuncio in Ottawa. Their letter included a threat to cause a public scandal if the Bishop did not take action on their complaints. The Bishop decided not to respond to this letter, other than to order Father Hood to dismiss me from the position of Altar Server. I think he felt that this would placate them. I spoke to the Bishop the day after Father Hood dismissed me, to try to convince him that by taking this action he was responding, and his response would only embolden this group. The Bishop asked me to leave it with him, and to stay close to and support Father Hood. By this time, Father Hood was starting to show signs of stress, both physical and emotional. As the owner of a health spa, I could recognize these signs. I could only imagine how he would have felt trying to minister to his congregation, knowing that a small minority was continuing to wage a campaign to have him removed from his job, his livelihood and his vocation, while spreading lies about his integrity. The group broadened their attack. They circulated a new petition to 45 people, many who did not even attend this church, reiterating all of their previous complaints against Father Hood. This time the Bishop did respond with a very strongly worded letter to the 45, he told them that their accusations were unfounded, their actions were un-Christian, and their claims about the liturgy were not worthy of a response. His letter essentially ordered these people to stop attacking Father Hood and gave them the option of attending another church if they weren't happy. Despite receiving this letter, the group was undeterred in their campaign against their pastor. It was at this point that I decided to consult a lawyer who specializes in civil litigation. My lawyer reviewed the facts and told me that Father Hood certainly had a very strong case against this group for defamation and libel. He told me that my case was just as strong since they had included me in their attack against Father Hood. However, he suggested that the public perception of a priest suing his parishioners might not be very positive, regardless of the actions of the defendants. In my case, he suggested that I had two options. One was to sue the 2 ringleaders of the group, the other was to file a human rights complaint. I opted for the human rights complaint. In my complaint, I have argued that this group of 12, by threatening the Bishop, have recklessly trampled on my rights as a human being, and my right to respond to my calling in the church. As such I have asked for the Bishop to reinstate me, and to preach a sermon on the ills of spreading rumour and innuendo. I have also asked each of the 12 parishioners to make a donation of $20,000 to a charity of my choosing. Finally, I have asked the diocese to cover my legal expenses, up to a maximum of $25,000. However, if I am successful, I will donate whatever costs the diocese is required to pay, back to the church. I am not motivated by money or to punish or convert these people. My Pastor asked me to serve on the Altar, and so I did. My Bishop then asked me to stop serving on the Altar, and so I did. The Bishop also repeatedly asked these people to stop maligning their priest, they have not stopped. I am only holding this group of 12 people up to the same public scrutiny that they have held me, Father Hood, and Bishop DeAngelis to through their threats, petitions, gossip and letter writing. The church has enough trouble attracting new men to the priesthood, let alone if they are expected to endure this kind of abuse. Same applies to lay members who are called to serve - they too should not be abused freely by fellow parishioners. If the Bishop had given in to this groups demands to have Father Hood dismissed from his role as pastor, or if Father Hood had resigned out of frustration or if his health had continued to worsen as a result of the stress associated with such an attack, imagine the damage that would have been done to him, his livelihood and to his reputation. Having been dismissed as an altar server, imagine what speculation is going through my community as to why I was dismissed. I did nothing wrong. I am a Catholic practicing my faith within the doctrine of my church. Father Hood has done nothing wrong, other than to bring order and dignity back to a parish that had long been divided and controlled by a small group of malcontents. I am not looking for financial gain in this matter, but I do think that groups of people who publicly attack the clergy and their fellow parishioners in writing should be held accountable. Unfortunately, I had to name the Bishop as a respondent to this complaint, only because he is the one with the authority to reverse the decision that he was forced to make by the threats of the group of 12 rabble rousers. The Human Rights Commission is a by product of democracy in Ontario. It is an organization that, through mediation, makes best efforts to bring the parties together for discussion and resolution. In this case, I think there is a role for the Human Rights Commission to play in helping to resolve the issues that have been brought out into a public forum by this group of people, especially as they have affected my rights as a human being. Where did I get my facts from? Sadly, much of what I have said here has become public knowledge in the Parish of St. Michael's. The group of 12 tried to bring more people into their fold who did not support their cause or their tactics, and those people have been great friends and supporters. One thing you can say about Catholics - they like to talk.

Recipe for chicken noodle soup

I've just returned from a funeral. One of my brightest, youngest stars on the management team at the spa lost her mother after a long battle with cancer. The service was held at a small church in a rural community just north of Kingston. Due to a truck colliding with a hydro pole, there was no power in the church, or so we were told. In fact, the church was full of power - the power that emanates from the life force -the power of love and the power of faith. The power of song and prayer, the power of showing support for friends at a time of need. The lights may not have been on in this church, but someone certainly was home. Our Nat stood up and gave a powerful eulogy to her mom - I was so proud of her. A few years ago she would have been terrified to stand up and speak publicly, let alone as her mom's body lay resting a few feet away from her in an open casket. Nat talked about what a giving and loving person her mother was, and ultimately what a great mother and friend she had lost. And yet Nat was not tearful - she was happy that her mom was pain free and at peace, and she was following her mom's directive "Don't you dare cry for me. Smile and laugh, just like I have through-out my life." It occurred to me that a living being is made up of so many elements, flesh, organs, hair, and yet without the life force, it really is just an empty shell. Like chicken noodle soup, which is really just a pot filled with water, until you add the essential ingredients that make it into a healthy, soothing, nurturing meal. And yet when someone passes from life to death, none of those essential ingredients leave the planet, they just aren't working together anymore. Nat's mom will live on in the many people whose lives she has touched, and in Nat who has become a healthy, soothing and nurturing human being of whom her mother is well proud. Congratulations Tudy, and God speed.

Chicken soup just ain

If I were in charge of the universe . .

I was up at the spa when Gail, one of our housekeepers, breathlessly informed me of the news that Michael Jackson had passed away. I remember, or I think I remember hearing about JFK's untimely and shocking death - I was 5 at the time, and I definitely remember hearing about John Lennon's murder - it seems as though these events have been etched in my mind. Michael Jackson's death was somehow different. Perhaps because we have become so accustomed to the King of Pop's antics, the initial response was not one of shock or grief, but rather, a roll of the eyes, thinking, "here he goes again, another crazy stunt". Even today, after watching hours of tributes and news coverage, I'm still thinking that he is going to magically reappear, amidst all of the adulation, only to pull off the most spectacular hoax/comeback of all time. But alas, death is death, and except for the one big exception to this rule back in the days of JC, I highly doubt that even the King of Pop will be able to beat this rap. Michael Jackson lived a life, that despite his huge personal fortune, most people would have trouble living. Starting with a relentlessly demanding and abusive father, and ending with an equally demanding and abusive public. His music will live on - lord knows the past few days of tributes have brought back many great memories - and his life has already inspired the lives of many other musicians who will continue to entertain us, but he will be missed. Sometime on the weekend, while scanning the various cable music stations, I ended up watching "Ghosts". I don't remember ever seeing it before, and it seemed as though it was custom made by Michael as the last word on how he has been treated. It certainly leaves you with the realization that there can be no doubt that despite the best attempts of the media to make him out as some kind of freak, this was a very talented, hardworking man. So, if I were in charge of the universe, yes, I would give him MJ the chance to perform one last time at a venue of his choosing so that he could experience the outpouring of love that was so muted as a result of the claims that were made against him, and that he was acquitted for. But apparently, I'm not in charge of the universe.