Drink the Other Macchiato

For reasons I don’t completely understand, when the friendly coffee agents at Receiver Coffee make me a decaf macchiato every afternoon conditions require they make two macchiatos.

Heretofore, in the old ROW142 days, the second macchiato would generally be consumed, for quality control purposes, by the agent themselves, but under the new regime, with the volume of coffee going out having increased exponentially, this doesn’t scale, and thus the second is now being offered up to me.

Which begs the question: what to do with the other macchiato?

And so I propose an arrangement: if you are in the Queen-Richmond area in downtown Charlottetown some weekday afternoon and are prepared to offer up some insights, witty anecdnotes, makeup tips or tales of woe while we sit drinking macchiatos on the Receiver Coffee balcony, the other macchiato is on me.

Just ping me on Twitter to proceed.

Two macchiato afternoon.

Penny and her Pyramid

Penny, who was once four years old (I know, because I was there) is now ten years old. I’ve known Penny for longer than I haven’t known her, but we’ve never had a conversation because, at least up until the time I saw her last 3 years ago, she didn’t yet speak English and I didn’t yet speak Danish.

But, as my friend Ton relates, this didn’t prevent some indirect knowledge transfer from happening, with Ton and his partner Elmine as the midwives.

Reading that story I’m inclined to jump up and shout “yes!”, as that’s the way the world is supposed to work.

Thank you to Ton and Elmine for their activism, on both ends.

I look forward to discussing this with Penny in a few years in person.

Rockwood | Worcester

One of the more recognizable features modern-day additions to Province House in Charlottetown are the beautiful cast “Rockwood | Worcester” alarm bells on the outside:

Rockwood | Worcester

I’ve been walking by these for years, and it was only today that I learned that the former home of the Rockwood Sprinkler Company in Worcester, Massachusetts is now home to a large art studio and gallery complex called The Sprinkler Factory.

The Big Stapler

One of the delightful aspects of visiting my colleagues at Yankee Publishing is that, as a publisher that’s nearing 80 years in business, there’s been a substantial opportunity for the company to have acquired a lot of interesting tools of the trade.

Last week, for example, I discovered that the Xerox DocuColor copier, scanner and printer in the Production department (itself interesting tool of the trade) has a booklet-making feature: from my Mac it’s very easy to say “take this PDF file and make it into a booklet,” with the resulting booklet having each page of the PDF printed on half of an 8½x11 inch piece of paper, and everything collated so that when folded in half it reads in the proper order.

Once I’d made a booklet, I needed a way to staple it, and a path of inquiry through the company led me to the Yankee Magazine editorial department, where I found exactly what I needed, a Swingline stapler with an extended arm:

Swingline Extended Stapler

The stapler does exactly what you think it should, with a very satisfying clunk on every staple. (Those metal bars running along the wall, by the way, are where pages of the next issue of Yankee get posted for everyone to review).

My company Reinvented renewed our contract with Yankee last week to take us up to 2016, a year that will be our 20th anniversary of working together. Which means there’s plenty more opportunity to discover interesting tools in Yankee’s nooks and crannies.

I Shot Your Dog

I was sitting on the front porch of the Harrisville General Store this afternoon just finishing up lunch when an old acquaintance of mine, a former Yankee copy editor who once swopped houses with us, pulled up in her Toyota Prius.

In the back of the car was a delightful-looking dog with a shiny coat, a dog that looked like a Dalmatian but wasn’t.

I asked my old acquaintance if I could pet her dog.

She said yes.

I petted her dog.

This is something that, six months ago, never would have occurred to me, but which today seemed like the most natural thing of all.

I have, it seems, become a dog person.

How did this happen?

On Skype with Ethan

Since Ethan, Oliver’s dog guide, joined our family in March, I’ve noticed a curious thing: running in parallel to regular everyday society there is, just under the surface, a secret cabal of dog lovers.

Civilians without the virtue of a dog in their lives are, I can attest from my earlier life, completely unaware of the existence of this cabal.

But once you’re in, you’re in. And I suppose now I’m in.

The presence of the cabal manifests in all sorts of interesting ways.

On our flight back from Frankfurt to Halifax, with Ethan riding in the cabin at our feet, for example, the chief flight attendant approached me, crouched and in a whisper.

“Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you,” she said. And then added, “I’m a dog lover.”

She offered to bring water for Ethan or even, seemingly against all international decency treaties, to allow for Ethan to surreptitiously pee on the airplane should the need arise (it didn’t).

Outside of airliners, the most obvious manifestation of the dog lover crowd is on the street: walking through Charlottetown, as we do quite often, will engender five to ten dog-related questions per hour from total strangers.

“Oh, is that a labradoodle?” (no)

“Can I pet your dog?” (no)

“What a beautiful dog! I have one just like him” (that’s nice)

“Can my son pet your dog?” (no)

“What kind of dog is that?” (a poodle)

“I had a dog just like yours, but she died three weeks ago…” (pathos)

Apparently one of the laws of dog-lover-world is that unprompted conversations with strangers are acceptable if they involve dogs.

This, of course, is part of the whole point of Ethan – to act as a social ice breaker for Oliver – so it’s hard to grumble about it, even if it is question number 98 on a hot summer day when one’s interior voice feels like saying “it’s not a goddammed labradoodle, okay.”

The osmotic road into this lifestyle has been proceeding since March, with occasional bursts of realization popping up in the months since.

Earlier this week, for example, my friend Dan James (also inside the cabal) noticed a dog trapped in a hot minivan in the Cavendish Beach parking lot.

Old me would have sloughed this off as another one of life’s unfortunate events.

New me was screaming (to myself) “break the window – break the window!” and feeling a tremendous sense of panic at the very though of such a beastly act.

How this affects friendships is also interesting, for in ones life will be a combination of heretofore unrecognized dog lovers and those for whom dogs mean little, nothing, or dread.

Learning that someone is dog lover. Or secretly has a deep-seated fear of dogs. Or that they don’t seem to notice that a dog is in the room at all. Adds an interesting layer to how friends are viewed.

In the same way that you wouldn’t break up with a friend because they don’t like broccoli, it’s not that non-dog-lovers are ineligible for continued friendship.

And it’s not like learning someone is a dog lover is an immediate cause of endearment.

I’d say it’s more like learning that a friend I really like is a secret broccoli-lover makes me love them even more.

And learning that someone I dislike doesn’t like broccoli is all the more reason to detest them with renewed vigour.

For everyone else, life continues on as before.

This aspect of life isn’t unique to dogs.

Show up in a new town with a banjo on your knee and you’ll be certain to find a bed and a meal for the night as there’s certain to be a banjo-loving kin almost anywhere (just as certain as you’ll find a lot of people who won’t give a banjo player the time of day).

We experienced that on our trip to Europe last month too: several times a day we’d benefit from unexpected kindnesses and compliments from restaurant servers (“here’s a bowl of water for your dog”), campground owners (“you can let your dog run down in the back field if you like”) and simply from strangers on the street (“autism assistance dog,” we heard more than once, “what a wonderful idea!”).

In this regard Ethan is a sort of über-dog: not only is he non-threatening and very well-trained, but he’s also in service, which makes him all the more noble and loved.

I’d been telling myself, and others who I feared might look down on me if the truth was revealed, that Ethan, as a working dog, was a utilitarian aspect of our family, an aid to Oliver, and not a dog that one would develop any affection for.

That was a lie, you now know, an untruth I told myself to prevent from having to deal with the notion that I’ve become one of them, a card-carrying lover of all dogs.

I am not at the stage yet where I will accept dog calendars as Christmas gifts. But can that be too far away?

In the meantime, as we pass on the street, oh fellow cabal members, I will recognize in your wry smile and slight wink a kinship that others cannot understand.

And I will feel all the better for it.

(Post title courtesy of Fred J. Eaglesmith; watch the entire video)