January 14^th.

To most people, it’s just another box on the calendar to cross off.

Some interesting things happened on that day.

In 1784, the Treaty of Paris was ratified by the United States Congress, officially ending the Revolutionary War.

In 1969, four blokes from Liverpool stood on the roof of the Apple Corps Headquarters in London and gave the world one of the last public performances of the Beatles and cranked out “Get Back” to the people of the British capital.

Elvis Presley’s “Alohah from Hawaii” concert was broadcast in 1973 and became one of the first global satellite specials that was seen around the world.

January 14^th is also the birthdates of some other people you may have heard of.

Dave Grohl.

Jason Bateman.

LL Cool J.

Faye Dunaway.

And one of my all-time favourites, Carl Weathers, who played Apollo Creed in the Rocky franchise.

None of those facts above hold a candle to what happened on January 14^th, 2014.

That honour belongs to a little girl who thought 9 months was too much time to spend in her mother’s womb and decided to make her appearance 2 and a half months early.

She weighed in at 3 pounds, 1 oz.

I was lucky enough to be there to witness it.

Her name is Cameron.

I’m her Dad.

You may ask why I would sit down and write a story about my daughter who is only 12 years old.

Fair question.

Normally I write about people who scrapped their way to the top, are running for office, or have left a powerful impact on their community.

So here I am, talking about a girl who bosses me around and doesn’t know how to put the dishes in the sink.

She may be only 12 years old, but the first chapter of her life has been anything but ordinary.

It’s been extraordinary.

Long before she could ever carry a tune or slam her bedroom door off the hinges, she was giving us a lesson in resilience.

Her early entrance to the world has been well documented. Her first home wasn’t a cozy entrance. It was the Neo Natal Care Unit (NICU) at Doctor Everett Chalmers Hospital. She was surrounded by monitors, tubes, amazing nurses, and a new mother and father that were trying to put it all in perspective.

Most newborns spend their first months discovering their new world.

Cameron Jean Betts spent her first days proving that she belonged in it.

Looking back, it is remarkable how those first days in the NICU not only shaped her mother and me, but Cameron herself. Before she was big enough to roll over, she started writing the first pages of her story, that had been built on determination and the refusal to not give up.

If those first few tense months are any indication of what’s to come, the sequel will be interesting.

Pitch Perfect

Music arrived hardwired in Cameron’s soul.

Back in the NICU days, when every ounce gained was a win, Lindsay and I would take turns holding our little girl. To pass the time, we would sing to her.

Naturally, I introduced her to a song that every Miramichi youth should know by heart. The Mavis O’Donnell classic, “Fiddleheads & Gasperaux.”

Before she knew the alphabet, she was going to know how to belt out the Miramichi National Anthem,

Lindsay’s method was a little different. She would sing the much calmer and less rowdy “Ho Hey’ by the Lumineers.

Later, when we were at home and the song would come on, Cameron’s bottom lip would quiver, and tears would roll down her cheeks.

To this day, I still can’t tell you if that song unlocked memories of her time in the hospital, or if it was a reminder of her mother’s insistence of singing off key.

Thankfully, time has a way of settling what once were bad memories.

Years later, during a Saturday night karaoke session in our living room, “Ho Hey’ came on again. Only this time it was happy tears as Cameron sang every note perfectly on key.

Unlike one of her parents.

We survived the Taylor Swift Era, and whatever song was on her top 40 obsession list.

There was also a Beach Boy phase, mainly due to her having watched every episode of Full House 10 times. She was convinced that they belonged on the family playlist. “Kokomo” on repeat was way more tolerable than two straight hours of “Shake it off”.

The song “Forever” that Jesse and the Rippers recorded special place in her heart.

And mine.

I know I’m supposed to keep in under wraps, but when the day comes that I must walk her down the aisle, I’ve already made one decision.

Our father-daughter dance will be “Forever”. We’ve watched enough episodes of Full House to be honorary Tanner’s.

Her musical ears are exceptional.

One day while driving, “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi came one the radio, and she hollered from the back seat, “This isn’t rock, it’s country.”

Given the state of country music at the time, I couldn’t even argue with her.

She claims that her walk out song, the one she would use if she was walking up to the plate or entering a wrestling ring to tackle the opposition, would be “So What” by Pink.

That decision was made at her first ever concert at Fenway Park, as Pink soared over the top of us and waved directly at her while “So What” blasted through the stadium speakers.

Some may say she was waving to the Fenway Faithful as she flew through the sky on that beautiful August night in Beantown, but try convincing a little girl experiencing her first concert that the wave wasn’t just for her.

Or parents watching their daughter’s eyes light up brighter than the city skyline over the Charles River.

Some memories don’t have to be totally true. They just have to feel that way.

The Great Princess Escape

My first memory is driving up the Big Hole Brook Road to the camp with my grandfather when I was 3 years old. Just me and him in a little red Datsun.

I can’t tell you what we talked about, but I do remember that feeling of driving up that dirt road.

Truthfully, most of my best childhood memories came from the times spent at my grandparents’ house. It’s where us cousins gathered and went hard all day until we fell asleep on the living room floor, fly-bitten and badly in need of a bath.

Their houses were fortresses of solitude. Small enough to make it seem crowded, but big enough to escape to find peace.

Cameron’s first memory happened at Nannie’s house when she was 3 years old, on the same plot of land that my first memory started on.

We were there for the weekend, and her best friend and cousin, Ellie, was staying the night too. They were both going to sleep in Nannies bed with her.

I disappeared to the peacefulness of the basement, totally unaware of what was going to happen upstairs in the wee hours of the morning.

The next morning as I sat at the counter enjoying a cup of coffee, I heard Mom laughing as she came down the stairs.

“What’s so funny?”

Mom had faded off to sleep with two little angels passed out beside her. At 3 am, she awoke, and they were gone.

Her feet hit the floor, and she raced downstairs to find them fully dressed as Disney princesses, tiaras and all, dancing in the living room with Taylor Swift playing on the TV as they snacked on raw wieners and raw cookie dough.

She didn’t order them back to bed and only left instructions to turn off the TV before they did.

Grandparents know that the floors can be cleaned and that the princess dresses can be folded and put away.

But memories like that last forever.

Premier Cameron 2044?

I knew being a father would be full of surprises. I just didn’t know how or when those surprises would appear.

One day, we were driving and it hit me that we were in the middle of an adult conversation and she was using words that I didn’t know she knew the meaning of.

Not only did she have opinions, but she was also using logic to back them up.

Her policy planks rival any that are presented to the general public in today’s day and age.

Taxes? Unnecessary.

School is an elaborate form of torture and if it was up to her, the education system would be more like Adam Sandler’s version in the movie “Billy Madison.” Blow through all the grades in a matter of weeks and have a giant party afterwards.

But her strongest conviction is the one that may get her the Premier’s chair.

Ice cream is a totally acceptable standalone meal.

And Chocolate Fudge Brownie is her go-to supper.

Chocolate Fudge Brownie people are all in and committed to the cause. They are loyal, dependable, and have a sarcastic sense of humour.

Those sound like the makings of a future leader. How could you not vote for that platform?

It was around this time that I knew I was going to have to sharpen my pencil.

Cameron doesn’t share her emotions with just anyone. She is guarded with her feelings and only a lucky few get to see them in real time.

She is confident in her abilities, determined in her beliefs, and has a sharp sarcastic wit that comes naturally.

Sometimes all three of those traits show up at the same time.

Case in point, The Great Dog Negotiations.

From the moment Cameron could string a sentence together, she’s been asking for a dog.

We figured we had time, so we told her she could get one when she turned five.

The candles on her 5^th birthday cake were barely extinguished when she turned and asked, “So... where’s my dog?”

Uh Oh. This kid has a memory on her.

“We’ll get one when we move to a bigger house,” we told her.

We moved to a bigger house, and before Lindsay could arrange the kitchen so I’d have to ask her where something was, we were confronted with a determined 5-year-old standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips.

“So... where’s my dog?”

In one last attempt to delay the inevitable, we suggested she get a cat, to see how she would make out looking after a pet.

Her response was quick, sharp, and to the point.

“I don’t want a cat, because my dog will chase it.”

She had us. We admitted defeat.

Eventually, we caved and told her we were bringing her a surprise.

When we got home and placed Casey Pearl Sunny Schweenie in her arms, for just a few seconds, time stopped. In those moments we witnessed what love at first sight was, and pure unfiltered joy came to the forefront.

The Mad Scientist

The beginning of Cameron’s education career was derailed by Covid, so she never knew what normal was. Masks, lockdowns, and uncertainty weighed her. She didn’t get the version of school most people have.

For Cameron, that was the normal.

She’s not the type that is going to run into a room and introduce herself to the crowd. She is painfully shy. At first.

But don’t mistake her shyness for disconnection.

She’s watching. She’s listening. She’s processing information like she is part of a CSI team. When the time comes and she feels comfortable enough to join the party, she already has everyone figured out.

She has the mind of an engineer or mad scientist.

When opening our freezer, you don’t blindly swing open the door and reach in for the ice cream. You use caution.

You carefully open the door like you are diffusing a bomb because there is a good chance you’ll be faced with some kind of frozen concoction made up of peanut butter, gummy worms, chocolate syrup and spicy Cheetos.

We don’t worry about what is hiding in her room. We worry about what is lurking in the dark back corner of the freezer.

Over the years, Lindsay and I have learned that this creativity is an outlet for Cameron, so we just let it happen.

We can deal with the mess later.

Classified

Cameron operates on a need-to-know basis. If she decides you need to know something, she will fill you in eventually.

Case in point, her first school Christmas concert.

We showed up, grabbed our seats, and scanned the stage for our little girl

There she was. Standing in the front row of the choir singing her heart out. She joined without mentioning a single word to either of us.

To Cameron, it was perfectly normal. It was her decision. Her business. And she’d share the information with us when the time was right. Or not.

To extract information, you must corner her in the car where she can’t escape. It also happens to be the place where our best conversations happen.

Information should be released on a strictly controlled schedule.

For my own personal entertainment, I bribed her with a date to Starbucks to see how the hamster on the wheel inside her melon ran.

We played the rapid-fire word association game, and her answers showed me how much she’s been paying attention these last 12 years.

Some answers were exactly what I expected. Others caught me completely off guard and showed me she was more insightful than I ever thought.

Favourite smell? Cinnamon rolls.

City you want to visit? New York.

One person, living or dead, you’d have dinner with? Macklin Celebrini.

Favourite song? I Got Better by Morgan Wallen.

Favourite movie? Billy Madison.

That one tracks.

Favourite place? - Nannie’s house

Home? - Just a place

Family? - Crazy

Fair, no objections here.

Love? - People

School? - Torture

Friendship? - Good people

Music? - Happy

Happiness? - Ellie

Casey? - Smiles

Mom? - Supportive

Dad? - Creative

I’ll take that over embarrassing.

Grammy? Love.

Beeba? Wise.

Nanny? Treats.

Again... completely accurate.

Grandad? “Red hair like me... and music.”

Finally, I asked her what her favourite number was.

Without missing a beat she said, “Seven.”

Why?

“Because it’s my lucky number... and seven was my favourite age.”

That one set be back a bit.

There were moments when I wish we could turn back time because it has a way of reminding you how fast childhood disappears.

Still, I wouldn’t trade the 12-year-old sitting across the table from me at Starbucks with a $10 Pink Drink in front of her for anything.

I don’t need you to be 7 again.

I just want you to be happy.

Everything else is gravy.

“What do you do when your water breaks?”

“There must be a valve somewhere, Bradley. Call a plumber.”

I can picture the look on Brad’s face as he was holding the phone realizing that his mother, Sheila, wasn’t picking up what he was dropping down.

Not long after Becky and Brad moved north to MacKenzie, they got pregnant.

The day before Brad’s birthday in May, he received the ultimate gift. A son.

James Jacob Dillon was born a little ahead of schedule, but was healthy as could be, and was soon home under the watchful eye of his big sister, Kaylee.

The life they were building in MacKenzie was treating them well.

Brad was hitting his stride professionally, and Becky was balancing being the mother of two while finishing her business degree. The weekends were filled with mountains, lakes, trails, and the occasional stop at a fishing hole so Brad could wet his line.

Things were good. Really good. Which means a wrench was about to be thrown at them.

One day the phone rang. It was Irving. They wanted Brad back in New Brunswick. More specifically, Doaktown.

Leaving the life they built in BC was hard, but their goal was to always find their way back east, and eventually, Doaktown. They just didn’t think that it would happen as quickly as it did.

Brad went to work at the white pine mill. Becky finished her degree and went to work at a call center. Kaylee and Jacob adjusted to the Doaktown lifestyle naturally and soon were spending as much time at the basketball court and hockey rink as they were at home.

Brad joined Enterprise Miramichi, a business development organization. He would travel to meetings with Cliff Durling, who was the owner of the Home Hardware store in Doaktown. Along the drives, the conversations drifted from business to family to faith, and they quickly became close friends.

Brad would joke, “Whenever you are ready to sell the Home Hardware, call me.”

And they’d laugh.

They both assumed that it was just a tongue in cheek conversation that would kill the time while driving.

If you say something out loud enough times, people might start to take you seriously.

Including yourself.

Starting Over

One of the sad realities of working for a big company like Irving is that the employees are easily dispensable and replaced.

That day showed up for Brad out of the blue, and on the drive home on the South Road, he was trying to figure out how he was going to tell Becky. He took a left on to Betts Drive and stopped in to see Cliff.

He needed some guidance, and someone to tell him that it would be ok.

There was a conversation, and there was a prayer.

Maybe this was only the end of the chapter. The next chapter would be where God picked up his pen.

Soon, he decided it was time to start attending church regularly again. It was a way to provide solace, search for answers and guidance, and reconnect with his spirituality that had been so important in his youth.

At first, he went alone. Becky at the time was dead set against it. Brad could go, but it wasn’t for her. The skepticism of religion was still sticking around. He took Kaylee and Jacob with him; Becky was still reluctant. The kids would see where Dad was going on Sunday mornings, and be introduced to faith, and choose to follow what they want when they grow older.

He was planting the seeds, and it was up to them whether they wanted to sprout into trees or stay buried in the soil.

Parents don’t control the harvest; they just plant the seeds.

Eventually, a job came up with Colonial Manufacturing in Fredericton selling molding. They moved to Fredericton and bought a house.

The possibility of owning the company one day down the road was very much a reality, but in the end, it didn’t work out and Brad and the owner parted ways.

The universe has a funny way of telling you what you should be doing at a certain point in your life, and here is where their story and faith started to make a bit of sense to me.

I’m the type of person that looks to logic to make sense of the world. Lately, I’ve had a really hard time doing that.

I always looked at the reason to find the rhyme. The magical to get to the mystical. The composition to get to the dance. The analytical to get to the evangelical.

Faith and religion are always something that I have struggled with because it asks you to believe before the evidence shows up.

Becky went to work every day and made sure that the mortgage was paid, and the lights were kept on.

Brad’s father deposited money in the bank account every month to make sure the truck payment was covered. Sometimes Angels appear in real life, and you call them Dad.

Those 10 months that Brad was jobless were difficult. But maybe he wasn’t supposed to be working at that point in time. He needed to be home every day to do more important work.

Because Jacob needed him.

Jacob was in grade 2. He was struggling, academically, and socially at school. His reading was far below his grade level. He would cry in the schoolyard because he was having a hard time introducing himself to new friends.

The last part was an easy fix. He told Jacob that if he came home from school at the end of the day and told him the first and last name of a kid that he talked to, he would take him to Dairy Queen and get him whatever ice cream he wanted.

A sure-fire parenting strategy that yields instant results. Ice cream can fix everything.

Soon, Jacob was ringing off names as soon as he got through the door, and the would be one their way to Union Street to get a cool treat.

While Jacob would stare at the menu, decided what to try that day, Brad would always go back to old reliable. A strawberry milkshake.

Strawberry milkshake people are optimistic, loyal, and comfortable in their own skin. They have a touch of nostalgia in them, especially when a classic tune comes on and there is a dance floor.

Brad likes to think he’s a killer on the dance floor, and I admit, he has some moves. I have video evidence. and I can let you see them for the low bargain price of $9.99.

Brad claims his walk out song is “The Way You Move.”

Respectfully, it’s not.

Its “Mama’s Don’t Let Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.

More specifically, this part:
“Them that don’t know him won’t like him
And them that do sometimes won’t know how to take him
He ain’t wrong, he’s just different
But his pride won’t let him do things to make you think he’s right”

If you know Brad, you get it.

Sorry, little sidebar there.

So, he spent the time he had off, looking for his next purpose, and what the future may be like. Him and Jacob put in time and he helped Jacob improve his reading skills. When grade 2 ended, Jacob was reading above grade 3 level.

Turns out, the best teacher in town was sleeping right across the hallway.

One afternoon after another successful trip to Dairy Queen, they were pulling in the driveway, and Brad’s phone rang.

It was Marwood. They were calling to offer him a job as a molding salesman at Little’s Lumber.

10 months of wondering.

10 months of uncertainty.

10 months of trusting that God had a masterplan, and it would all work out.

Brad and Jacob got out of the truck and kneeled in the driveway to give thanks.

I’m still not ruling out that Dairy Queen had something to do with it too.

It always comes back to the ice cream.

Redemption Day

The new sales job wasn’t exactly an instant success.

Sales were slow. Really slow.

When your take home pay depends on people buying something from you, silence becomes expensive.

Brad was driving out the Hanwell Road, feeling down on himself, wondering if he would make it.

Somewhere between Fredericton and Harvey he stopped feeling sorry for himself and started talking to God.

He started a silent prayer and his drove his truck towards Little’s Lumber in Harvey, asking God for guidance.

As he said, Amen, his phone rang.

He made a sale.

Then more sales came. And more after that.

Years later when Jacob was hired for the same position at Little’s Lumber, he reviewed the sales history dating back to when Brad had the job.

No one else since has had better numbers.

Maybe God still had Brad’s pen in his hand.

Sales numbers like that don’t go unnoticed. Marwood saw the potential and asked Brad to manage their mill just outside of Truro, Nova Scotia.

They were on the move again, and for the first few weeks on the job, Brad slept in his office at the mill site. While Becky tidied up the house sale and packed for the move, Brad had put an accepted offer in on a house in Bible Hill, that Becky had only seen pictures off.

That alone is an incredible act of faith.

Brad admitted he had a feeling that Becky would open her life to Jesus Christ when they moved to Nova Scotia. He’d been praying for years that Becky would find faith that had been so important to him.

As they crossed the provincial border from Aulac to Amherst, he chuckled because he found himself peaking over at Becky to see if the Holy Spirit had taken over her body.

No heavenly choir. Hank Williams did not appear singing “I Saw the Light.” No bolt of lightning.

He wasn’t discouraged. Faith, as he had learned, wasn’t about knowing when something was going to happen.

It’s believing that it will.

They hit their stride in Truro.

Becky went to work at the Nova Scotia Agricultural College, and Brad eventually became manager for Nova Scotia’s Marwood operations.

Kaylee and Jacob again had to transition to a new place; this time it was easier.

Brad coached Jacob’s hockey team to a provincial title, and Becky made sure the snack cupboard was always full.

Two important things happened to them while they were there.

First, Doug MacLeod, introduced Brad to a man named Jol Hunter.

Brad calls Jol the smartest man he has ever met. Jol had a gift to calm down the storm as the waters rose.

He checked in, offered wisdom, and reminded Brad that every setback didn’t mean crisis.

The next thing to happen was something Brad had prayed for.

Church had become less of a thing that Becky tolerated and more of a place that she wanted to be.

The skepticism that once held her back was easing.

Not because she was forced into it, but because she was loved into it.

They found genuine friendships that showed up with coffee when life seemed to be falling apart and stayed until it all started making sense again. Those friendships remain strong to this day.

They met a young pastor by the name of Lynn Erskine, who provided friendship and guidance when they needed it. He walked alongside them and helped shape their faith.

Then life dished up a reminder that tomorrow isn’t promised.

Pastor Erskine was young, fit and had a lot going for him. He was just finishing a 28-kilometer run, when he got to the end of his driveway and he dropped.

He was called home.

Pastor Erskine’s passing broke something inside Becky.

She stood in the middle of Terrabella Lane in front of their house overwhelmed with grief and questions she didn’t know the answers to.

She looked at Heaven and stopped fighting.

She hollered at the top of her lungs that she surrendered and accepted Jesus Christ as her Saviour.

If you ever heard Becky scream, you can be certain that God heard her. He didn’t have to ask her to repeat herself.

Instead of a whispered prayer, Becky shouted through her tears and handed the pen over to God to write her next chapter.

Now here’s the thing about Becky, and I can speak to this with good authority. I’ve known her my whole life. We met the day I was born.

If I had to describe her in one would, that word would be passionate.

If I had to describe her in two words, they would be passionately stubborn.

She is passionate, to the point of being annoying.

Sometimes I poke the bear for giggles and grins just to watch what happens. Knowing full well that the passion will seep out of her and she can go off on a tangent that any Southern Baptist preacher would envy.

She wants every single person she loves to join her in Heaven, and that is a hill she will die on and will defend until the end of time.

Don’t mess with anyone that is part of her circle; she’ll throw it down. Remember, her fighting record is 3 and 0.

The funny thing is, after she helps you up off the floor, she’ll bandage you up and invite you to go for ice cream. She would love to share a dish of Hot Tin Roof Ice cream with you, but they don’t make it anymore.

Hot tin roof people are tough on the outside, and soft in the middle. They are loyal to the core, happiest when they are around a campfire with their people, with a perfectly roasted marshmallow and not pretending to be something they’re not.

If that’s not Becky in two scoops, I don’t know what is.

Home

Eventually, all roads lead back home, with a pit stop in Fredericton.

Brad was offered the chance to come back to Marwood and become head of operations for the entire company. A well-deserved promotion.

Becky would land a job with the school district, and they would buy a house with a pool.

The best kind of pool to have is someone else’s.

I became a permanent fixture, poolside.

As life in Fredericton started to feel normal, Cliff called Brad, saying he was ready to start talking about selling not just the Doaktown Home Hardware, but the store in Blackville that he acquired as well. After almost 50 years serving the community, he was ready to take his golden hammer and retire.

Brad, thinking that he had a path to being a partner at Marwood, said for now he was happy.

But. after 17 wonderful years at Marwood, Brad took the unlikely path to Ironwood Homes in Woodstock, NB. Ironwood handed Brad a crash course in home building that would prove to be valuable down the road. He learned how the puzzle pieces fit together and what customers cared about.

But the opportunity with Home Hardware just wouldn’t leave his mind.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the time to strike.

Two years of talking and meeting with Cliff. Two years of negotiations with lawyers, banks, and Home Hardware head office.

Two years of wondering if every roadblock would kill their dream.

As the negotiations were getting to the finish line, and all the bumps and curves thrown at them had been avoided, the papers were still not signed, and patience was wearing thin.

Brad was driving to Ironwood in Woodstock one day and found himself again struggling as to if this was the right path for him and Becky to take. He cried out to God asking if He was the same God that spoke to David.

A rainbow appeared in the sky.

Brad wondered, “is that for me?”

And then a second rainbow.

If that isn’t a sign, then I don’t know what is.

After a mad dash to the lawyer’s office just before 5 pm on the day the deal was to close, Becky and Brad were the new owners of the Doaktown and Blackville Home Hardware stores.

They sold their house with the pool and moved to Doaktown.

I still haven’t forgiven them for that.

Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise

Every successful marriage has moments when one person steps back and lets the other person drive.

While Brad led the negotiations and the bulk of responsibility of getting the deal done, Becky stood by his side.

They held their official opening on a beautiful June day in the parking lot of the Doaktown Home Hardware. The whole community showed up to welcome them. Some came to congratulate them. Some came for the free food. Most came for both.

For reasons I’ll never understand, they asked me to be Master of Ceremonies that day and gave me full creative control on the script.

Some parts of their judgement should be questioned; I should not have that kind of power.

After a colorful introduction that was more of a roast than a ribbon cutting, Brad stepped to the microphone. His remarks were brief and gracious.

This was Becky’s time.

Becky didn’t have to learn to be a leader; those abilities are in her core.

I recently ran into our Grade 12 homeroom teacher, Mr. Green, in the doctor’s office waiting room. I sat down beside him, and we started a conversation, and it eventually drifted to what I was writing about.

He smiled and said, “Let me tell you something about Becky. When I was her Grade 12 teacher, I needed someone to step up and get some stuff done. Only one person came forward, and all the stuff was done. It was Becky. She has always been a leader.”

Mr. Green honoured her on graduation night on the stage by presenting her with a dozen roses for her leadership. Besides the day her kids were born, it’s one of the proudest parts of her life.

As she stepped up to the microphone that day in the Home Hardware parking lot, her voice cracked. Not because she was nervous, but because she was home.

She thanked the community that raised her, and all the people that supported them through the years.

It was part thank you speech, part vision for what the Home Hardware would become, and part sermon.

And no one was leaving until they ate something.

Exactly the way she planned it.

Long May you Run

We sat on the deck at mom’s house one Saturday night and talked about their journey and I made notes.

As we talked, I started shaping how I was going to tell their story in my head.

But something was missing.

The circle wasn’t squared just yet.

A couple of days later, I was sitting on the deck of the camp at Miramichi Lake, staring across the water that I’d stared across about ten million times before, trying to figure out how to tie the whole thing together.

Becky and Brad wandered down the beach to catch up with old friends; the answer literally sat right in front of me.

Jacob.

Out of all my family, Jacob and I are likely the two that are cut out of the same piece of fabric.

At times, quiet and reserved and happy to sit in the back of the room with no eyes on us. Until someone says something dumb then we have our opinions.

Jacob, like his dad, is a forester. He’s worked out west, and if it wasn’t for the draw of the Miramichi River Valley, he’d probably be happiest sitting lakeside in Northern BC by himself with a fishing rod in hand.

Home has always been an interesting concept for Jacob.

When he graduated from high school in Truro, his yearbook listed his hometown as... Storeytown, New Brunswick.

Not MacKenzie, Fredericton, or Truro, or even Doaktown.

Storeytown.

That is where his first memories come from. Where he learned to skate, hunt, where he caught his first salmon, and where his lifelong buddies live.

Where, when life gets noisy, he disappears into the woods or finds a quiet brook until everything makes sense again.

He loves East Coast Hospitality and old country music. Willie and Waylon just hit better on a dirt road with the windows rolled down.

He has a creative streak that will sneak up on you.

Which explains why he is a Moon Mist Ice Cream kind of guy.

When the chance came to work with his mother and Father at Home Hardware presented itself, he was hesitant. He always said he was going to work there someday; he just didn’t think it would be with them.

He knows his bosses better than he knows any coworker and has to pick his moments when to jump in or back away when discussions get heated. And sometimes he jumps in even when he knows he shouldn’t. Working with his parents is exactly how he imagined it would be.

As I sat there on the beach and looked out over the lake and asked for answers, I tried to tie a bow on their story.

That little lake has been providing answers for generations.

It’s one of God’s gifts to our family.

It’s where we spent the summers of our formative years and learned how to swim and roast the perfect marshmallow. It is a place we go to reset.

It’s where Becky went into labour with Kaylee, and where she was first introduced to faith at Maragret Day’s camp just next door.

I guess the circle is squared now.

I’m still pissed they sold the house with the pool though.

When I started meeting with people to hear about their stories, my intention was to reach out to people that I normally wouldn’t and dig in to get to know what made their world turn.

I wanted them to know what made them get out of bed in the morning. Why did they turn right when they should have turned left? What did they learn from it, and how did the wrong turn shape them down the road?

One day, it hit me.

The most obvious choice for stories was sitting right in front of me. They were people that I grew up with, my family and the people who have become family.

I was busy spending my time searching for interesting people, I forgot to look close to home, and was reminded that they’ve been with me the whole time.

I’m a people watcher. I can sit in silence in a crowded room and watch the way people interact, how they handle themselves, who’s having a bad day, and who looks frustrated by the situation, what are the people 3 tables over talking about, and is the conversation actually playing out like it is in my head.

Half of the conversations are happening in real time. The other half are happening entirely in my head.

The two people I have studied the most are people that at times I have referred to as my guardian angels. I’ve been just about everywhere they’ve gone, either by choice or necessity.

They knew when I was stuck before I knew that I was stuck.

They pushed me when all I wanted to do was push back.

And when life finally threw a win my way, no one celebrated harder than they did.

One is my sister by chance.

The other, a brother by choice.

Both are blood.

So how did a girl from the Storeytown Road end up with a guy from Hildebrand Crescent?

How did they build a marriage, raise two kids, criss cross the country in search of their next opportunity, overcome obstacles, both professionally and personally, and still choose to see the sunny side of life?

How did they end up back in Doaktown, and the newish owners of two Home Hardware Stores?

Was it grit and determination, or predestination? Or was there someone, or something looking over them? Or a little bit of both?

This is a story about family and faith, and the journey it took to get them to where they are. And along the way, a whole lot of fun was had.

Setting the Hook

Like all good stories, we must go back to the beginning.

We have to go back over 32 years, to MacKenzie house, a residence on the Campus at the University of New Brunswick. That is where two young people met and had absolutely no idea; they were going to build a life together.

Becky Betts moved to the big city in search of Fredericton in search of higher education and life beyond Doaktown.

In high school, she was a good student, a little better than average, you could say. She didn’t really have to try, nor did she feel the need to. There were more important things to do than impress with a report card.

If you didn’t know her, like really know her, you might think she was a rebel. She had that edge. The edge that instantly lets you know that she has her opinions, and she’s not shy to share them. Unwritten rules were just that, and they were made to be broken.

But underneath it all was a layer of confidence, loyalty, and a protective streak that you didn’t know you would need. She was in your corner, even when you didn’t know you might need her.

She was a punch first, ask for permission later kind of girl.

Case in point, her high school fighting record was 3-0.

No mind games, fancy footwork, or floating like a butterfly. She stung like a jackhammer.

Start swinging and trust that the details would work out somewhere between the first connection point and someone sweeping up her opponent’s hair off the floor in the heated room at the rink.

While the swing first mentality, which, to this day, still appears, she grew up watching something way more valuable that would benefit her down the road.

Her grandparents, Jean and Cyril, owned a small business.

She saw firsthand what happens when the doors locked at closing time.

The inventory didn’t count itself. The books didn’t balance themselves. Customers came back because they were treated fairly, and employees stayed because they were respected.

The lessons learned behind the Sears counter were carried over to her high school years when she went to work for Carolyn and Kevin at Betts’ Canteen.

Watching Carolyn and Kevin navigate the business together showed her how the next generation would do it. That being successful was about building relationships. Their faith wasn’t something that was left at home; it shaped how they treated people, how they served their customers, and how they carried themselves every single day.

The first interaction at the takeout window mattered just as much as the product that went out the window the other way. If you got both those things right, the people didn’t just become customers; they became friends.

Not every lesson was about customer service. Somewhere along the way they taught her to make a pretty mean milkshake.

Without a doubt, one of life’s most important skills.

During her first semester at UNB, the MacKenzie House residents decided to do what young people do when they are away from the watchful eye of authority. This kind of situation rarely leads to excellent life choices.

Right up Becky’s alley.

She would have been dressed to the nines, Edwin Jeans, boat shoes, and low-cut top that showed off her “assets”. On this night, she donned a gold chain with a gold cross, for no other reason than as a fashion statement.

She did not at that point have a spiritual awakening; it just looked good with the outfit.

Faith wasn’t a topic we discussed in our household.

Sure, we went to Sunday school when we were little. Most of the time it was at Miramichi Lake, where Margaret Day would open up her cottage to all the kids on the beach, and lead us in singing “This Little Light of Mine” and then send us down the beach with a bounty of candy.

I think our parents believed in God, but prayer before dinner never happened.

Sunday church was moved to another cathedral. The congregation wore parkas and tossle hats. The collection plate was replaced with the passing of a bottle of Captain Morgan, which kept the nip off.

Church gave way to the hockey rink, and whatever else happened to be going on that weekend.

By the time Becky got to UNB, religion wasn’t even on the radar.

That chain with the gold cross was merely an accessory.

Or so, she thought.

The gold cross was bait, strategically tied on to lure any potential fish that were lurking in the halls of MacKenzie House.

The fish lurking in the pond that night was wearing red tab Levi jeans, cowboy boots and a leather UNB Forestry jacket. His hair was spiked with enough gel in it to survive hurricane force winds. The style had peaked a couple years earlier, but when you have spent so much time perfecting it, you just don’t throw the vintage out with the bath water.

The plan was working.

The gold cross had done exactly what it was intended to do. The fish had spotted the bait and was circling waiting for the right time to strike.

Becky noticed, and not so subtly asked, “Are you staring at my boobs?”

Busted.

He reached for his most plausible defense.

“I was looking at your cross, are you Catholic?”

Not the smoothest or most believable line, but credit to the quick-witted response.

Sometimes the longest lasting relationships begin not with the best pickup line, but a spectacularly awkward recovery attempt.

I first met Brad Dillon in the parking lot of MacKenzie House. Becky was taking me to my hockey game, and he was tagging along.

He was wearing the red tab Levi jeans, cowboy boots, his leather UNB Forestry jacket, and sporting the same spiked hair that was past its due date.

My first thought? Who the hell is this guy trying to fool?

He’s from Fredericton, what does he know about forestry? He probably hasn’t even pissed in the woods.

As it turns out, my first impression was wrong. Give the man a compass, a chopping axe and a frying pan to cook some hot dogs on over an open fire, and he’s perfectly content.

As we were driving down the hill towards the Coliseum on the exhibition grounds. He grabbed a cassette tape that was sitting on the dash and popped it in. He then proceeded to sing every word to Johnny Horton’s “Battle of New Orleans.”

This cat was wired different.

I had a feeling that life was going to get a little more interesting.

The next thing we knew, Becky was bringing him home for the weekend.

Then he came back the next weekend. And the weekend after that.

For the next two years, Brad became as much of the weekend routine as going to the rink on a Friday night.

He didn’t ease into the family; he just kept showing up until one day we looked around and realized he was.

Along came a Baby

Fast forward a couple of years.

At this point, it wasn’t a matter of if Brad was going to become a member of the family.

The question was, when?

Around Christmas of 1993, Becky had her wisdom teeth removed, and for weeks after, she was still experiencing an upset stomach and nausea. Side effects from the anesthesia, she said.

Most of us bought it. Mom didn’t. She had given birth to enough kids to know what was going on.

Becky was pregnant.

The baby would come in the summer, and a wedding date was set for September after Brad got home from his summer job in Saskatchewan. He wouldn’t be there when the baby came.

The rest of us would have to step up.

One early July morning, Becky woke up at the camp at Miramichi Lake with a feeling that was inevitable, but foreign to her at the same time.

It wasn’t heartburn, or indigestion from too many marshmallows from the campfire the night before.

It was go time.

She shuffled out to the deck to gauge the reality of about was about to happen as the loons called out from the lake to announce the beginning of a new day.

Grandmother had heard the shuffling out the door. Without any panic or fear, she knew exactly what was going on.

“I’ll go get your father; you are in labour.”

A frantic search for Dad’s socks, a bumpy drive out the Williamsburg Road, a quick stop in Stanley to call Mom from a pay phone, and a few short hours later, a little girl was born.

Alyssa Kaylee Dillon. She traded a quiet morning at the lake for the chaos of becoming part of our family.

In late August, Becky, Kaylee and Brad’s parents waited patiently for the plane to land at the Fredericton Airport.

The flight crew must have noticed the anticipation on Brad’s face as they taxied to the gate. They moved him to the front of the line, and the moment the cabin door opened, he took off.

He sprinted across the tarmac, and through the doors, and into the arms of his soon to be bride and their little girl.

Seems like a great ending to a Hallmark movie.

You may be wondering how I know every detail of these moments.

Well, Brad’s dad, Jim, was there with his camcorder.

Jim knew two things. He had to be on top of all the cutting-edge technology, and family moments like this should be caught on VHS.

Jim stood far enough away to let them have their moment, but close enough to capture every smile and happy tear.

Thankfully, he remembered to hit record.

They got married in the United Church in Doaktown, on a September day that was just as fit for a day of apple picking as it was for a wedding.

The church was the serious part. The fun would happen afterwards at the reception and dance at the Legion.

I remember sitting by myself at the back of the hall as they stepped onto the dance floor for their first dance. The emcee proudly introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Dillon.

Becky Betts was no more.

At least that’s what I was telling myself at the moment. No more big sister. A new husband, daughter, and a new last name. Everything was changing.

Turns out, it was just my over reaction to a happy event.

The next Friday, they pulled into the driveway at the exact same time as every Friday before.

The same Becky. The same Brad. Same Kaylee.

The only difference was the last name.

The Lasagna Incident

In June of 1996, I graduated from high school, and my mother had my bags pack before I walked across the stage to get my diploma.

Santa had brought me luggage the Christmas before. I think she was trying to tell me something.

Brad had graduated from UNB with a forestry degree and accepted a job with a forestry company in Prince George, British Columbia. He was already out there and had set up shop. Becky would continue her business program at the University of Northern BC.

I was tagging along, with every intention at the time of never coming back to Doaktown.

Yeah, didn’t work out that way.

As soon as the excitement wore off, and I realized that I wasn’t on vacation or in Kansas anymore, I started looking for my way home.

But those few months in Northern BC gave us a lifetime of memories.

I went to my first rodeo and a world championship boxing match.

I saw the Rockies for the first time and soaked in the hot springs in Jasper National Park and watched the Elk roam through town at their own free will.

I hiked up a mountain carrying a crying two-year-old in one arm and a gas can in the other.

Kaylee learned what Barney the purple dinosaur really was.

I learned that if you don’t know what I question means on a job application, you should probably ask.

I witnessed that a mouth full of lasagna can be spit at twenty paces and hit the target perfectly.

These are what I call Easter eggs. Stories that make no sense to the average reader and belong just to us.

I got to witness a young family starting out, struggling to make ends meet, and what their next move was.

As it turns out, their next opportunity arrived in the mailbox.

A letter arrived with the return address from Hildebrand Crescent in Fredericton.

It was from Brad’s dad.

Inside was a job advertisement carefully clipped from The Daily Gleaner from TimberWest in MacKenzie, British Columbia.

No scrolling on the internet looking for jobs.

Just a father, a pair of scissors, and a stamp. Sometimes that’s all it takes to change things.

A couple weeks later, Brad was in the shower, and the phone rang.

Our way of grabbing someone’s attention isn’t that subtle. You holler and yell till they stomp down the stairs in a fit of rage while wrapped in a towel.

It was Timber West. The offered Brad the job.

As he stood there in the towel, and tears of excitement rolled down his cheeks, two things ran through my mind.

The first was that if that towel fell, it would be the most epic story of all time.

The second thing was that it was time for me to go home.

They needed the time to be a family all on their own.

I packed my bags and hopped on a bus to Vancouver. From there, I would catch a plane home.

Becky, Brad, and Kaylee packed theirs for MacKenzie.

Their story started in MacKenzie House on the UNB campus.

Now, it was taking them to MacKenzie, British Columbia.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But perhaps someone was leaving breadcrumbs to let them know where they were supposed to be.

Back before the internet, streaming, Tik Tok and Instagram, kids actually had to go outside to keep themselves entertained.

In rural New Brunswick in the 1960’s Mother Nature’s playground provided numerous options to keep the adolescent mind busy.

When the warm sun of spring turned the ice at the outdoor rink in Doaktown to slush, it signaled the end of the hockey season, and the anticipation of salmon season.

In between the ice break up in the Miramichi and the first black salmon run of the new season, and the wait for the Rocky Brook salmon to start their journey upriver, baseball helped pass the time.

There were just enough youngsters in Doaktown to make up a team. No fancy uniforms, or cleats. Just the same pair of blue jeans they’d have to make last the summer, dirty sneakers, and a handed down ball glove that was broken in just right.

Occasionally, the parents would bring in a ringer from Fredericton for a week or two to put on a camp.

My father was one of those kids and told me the story about how he became the best bunter in Doaktown.

The coach called everyone in and demonstrated the proper technique.

“When laying down a bunt,” he said, “your top hand should gently guide the bat. Hold it with your fingers. Don’t wrap your hand around it.”

When it was Dads turn to show that he was listening to every word, the coach did something that proved that he wasn’t.

Dad squared to bunt, and the coach fired a fastball right down the pipe.

The next thing he knew, the pain in his knuckles hit, and the bat dropped to the ground.

As he tried his best to fight back the tears, the coach walked in from the mound to see if he was ok, and to ask him if he understood now why he was told not to wrap his fingers around the bat when bunting.

Lesson learned. The hard way.

That evening, the coach was boarded up at the house next door to where Dad grew up. He got to sit on the porch in the evening and listen to coach tell stories of skating in the Montreal Forum, the Boston Garden, Maple Leaf Gardens and Chicago Stadium.

Coaching baseball in the summer was just a way of giving back to the communities that cheered him as he lived out his dream of playing in the NHL.

He made his debut in the big league on January 18^th, 1958, and made history.

The coach’s name was Willie O’Ree.

A Shared Victory

The Willie O’Ree Community Hero Award is presented annually by the NHL to a deserving individual who, through hockey, has made a significant positive impact on community, culture and society.

It’s awarded to a person who uses the greatest game in the world to make their community a little better than they found it.

It’s understanding that the game is about more than what happens between the blue lines.

The trophy sits in the Hockey Hall of Fame in downtown Toronto, but a replica is soon to arrive in Mr. O’Ree’s hometown.

It will be addressed to Doug Grandy, founder of the Rink Rebels Female Hockey Organization.

Doug is quick to point out that while the trophy may have his name on it, but it belongs to countless volunteers, coaches, parents and sponsors who bought into his vision that was started in the garage.

And it belongs to the girls who show up to play and strengthen his determination to make the Rink Rebels program even bigger, and available to even more girls who want a chance to play.

Where the trophy will find a home has not yet been decided.

The obvious choice for a new home to display the trophy is Willie O’Ree Place on Fredericton’s Northside.

The vintage part in me suggests York Arena, where O’Ree began his hockey career.

There’s just something about those old barns that hit.

Clearing the Fog

I’ll admit the day I met Doug for a chat; I was just having one of those days. Nothing caused it in particular; I was just in a fog I couldn’t snap out of.

I suggested we meet at The Happy Baker on Main Street, because if there is anything that makes the fog clear, it’s good coffee and fresh pastries.

Before I get to the meat of Doug’s story, the coffee meeting was exactly what I needed.

There is something refreshing about two grown men sitting in a cafe talking about their struggles, their dreams, and the things they are trying to build. No egos, and no pretending you have it all figured out. Just a real conversation about where you have been, and where you want to end up.

Spending an hour with him left me optimistic, lighter, and motivated to chase my own dreams. His spirit is infectious. Spending time with people who are doing something meaningful reminds you that you can always do more.

Doug grew up in Nashwaaksis, and bought the home he grew up in from his parents.

His father, Bruce, was a long time Fredericton City Councilor who spent 22 years serving the people of the city. From his dad, he learned to check your ego at the door, and make the service purposeful.

Doug rose through the ranks of minor hockey in Fredericton, playing his way through AAA ranks, eventually getting selected in the Maritime Junior League draft by the Miramichi Timberwolves.

Hockey can open a lot of doors for you if you have some talent and drive and are willing to spend long nights on a cold bus chasing your dream. Doug had all of those things.

About three quarters of the way through his first season in the Timberwolves jersey; he came to the realization that most hockey players aren’t supposed to admit.

He was done. Not because he didn’t have the talent or didn’t love the game anymore, but because hockey for him at that stage had run its course.

Sometimes the hardest decision a young person can make is to stop chasing a dream.

It’s realizing that the dream took you as far as you were supposed to go.

There will be more dreams.

It was time to come home.

When One Dream Ends...

Moving home was easy. Figuring out that he was supposed to do next was the hard part.

It was a strange stretch of life where the road ahead seemed unclear.

That came in the most unexpected way. A friend suggested that he volunteer with the Kingsclear Fire Department.

Being a firefighter was never a childhood dream. One volunteer shift led to another, and before long the spark caught and firefighting became more than a hobby, it became his calling. He’s been a firefighter for the City of Fredericton for the last 16 years.

Along the way, he met his wife, built a family, and settled into what looked like a pretty good chapter of life, and then someone or something turned the page before he was done writing it.

A back injury which happened on duty required surgery. And then another surgery.

There was another battle brewing underneath the surface. One that nobody could see.

PTSD.

The public sees the uniforms, shiny red trucks, and a steady hand in times of chaos.

What they don’t see is what they carry home after they back the truck into the station.

For Doug, the combination of a back injury and the growing weight of PTSD, forced him to question something.

What was he supposed to do now?

Garage Dreams

Doug’s daughters got the hockey bug from him.

His youngest got the bug bad. She lives and breathes the game.

His oldest has a different relationship with hockey.

She never had the dream of playing in packed arenas someday, she just wanted to play, hang out with her friends and go home and be a kid.

It sounds simple enough, but with hockey lately, it’s anything but simple.

For girls that just wanted to play recreational hockey, there were no low-pressure options.

He stood in his garage with his friend, Ryan Burns, and they wondered why no one had built a place for girls like his daughter to play.

They decided to do something about it, and the idea for the Rink Rebels was born.

I couldn’t believe it when Doug said the Rink Rebels had only been around for two years. I guess with all the success and hype, it made it feel like they’ve been around forever.

Its success is proof that they are building something that the community genuinely needs.

The Rink Rebels mission is simple, but inspiring:

“At Rink Rebels, hockey is about more than wins and losses. It’s about building confidence through hard work, learning from challenges, and making memories that last long after the final buzzer. We believe every girl deserves the opportunity to grow—not just as a player, but as a leader, a teammate, and a person.”

The goal isn’t to create the next Hayley Wickenheiser or Marie-Philip Poulin. If that happens, it’s great.

The point is to build confidence, make friends, and learn skills that will benefit them further down the road in life.

You can try to remember all the goals you scored, but eventually, they’ll all blend together. All the trophies you’ve won will end up in a box in your parent’s basement collecting dust.

Leadership skills, and the satisfaction of knowing that it’s way more satisfying to pull someone up than push them down. Resilience and compassion. Those are the things the girls will remember.

How will the success of the Rink Rebels be measured? Doug’s not sure yet, he said it will take 10 years before the real results will be able to be calculated.

That’s when we will see what kind of woman these girls become in adulthood.

Thanks to Doug, and his dedicated group of volunteers, the foundation is on good footing.

Guilty Pleasures

One of the guilty pleasures that Doug admits to taking away from being part of the Rink Rebels program are the stories he gets to hear from some of the coaches that volunteer their time.

One of the storytellers is former professional hockey player Eric Neilson, who is a Rink Rebel coach.

Eric patrolled the wing for the Rimouski Oceanic in the QMJHL. His roommate was a kid from Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia. You may have heard of him; his name is Sidney Crosby.

Yes, Doug loves hearing stories about dressing rooms, epic games, and crossing paths with legends like Crosby and Tampa Bay Lightning coach Jon Cooper. But that’s not what sticks with him.

It’s the way he communicates, and how he builds confidence by not tearing the girls down. The way he quietly shows young athletes how to be good teammates and better people.

And that’s when Doug can’t help but think about Crosby.

People talk endlessly about Sid’s leadership. Some even argue he’s the greatest leader hockey has ever produced.

Maybe some of that was natural.

But when you watch Eric work with young players, it’s easy to imagine that a few leadership lessons were picked up somewhere along the way.

Later this summer, 350 girls will roll in to Fredericton, for a weekend of hockey, fun and friendship.

The Friendship Tournament is the Rink Rebels signature event. Each girl shows up, not knowing who will play on their line. Their names are thrown in a hat, and teams are picked at random. All skill levels are mashed together.

It’s a weekend to celebrate girls’ hockey, but more importantly, it’s a way to celebrate the community that rallied behind one man’s belief that better is possible.

On the surface, it’s a tournament. In reality, it’s a celebration of hockey and community.

Doug knows the planning and execution of the event will mean long days and organized chaos. He says when he gets home, he’s a different kind of tired, but his cup is full.

I bet when he gets home, he fills that cup with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.

Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough people are optimistic, value experiences over possessions, are a little nostalgic, and secretly hope that there is a little bit of cookie dough left at the bottom of the bowel.

Keepsakes

When we were cleaning out my grandmother’s house after she passed away and going through over 90 years of things she collected, I really didn’t want anything. The memories of my time spent there with her and my family were worth more than anything.

I did find one thing in a drawer that I quietly slipped into my pocket.

An autographed postcard of Willie O’Ree in his Boston Bruins uniform.

It sits on my mantle beside a mini wooden hockey stick that is signed, “To Bobby, Best Wishes, Wayne Gretzky #99.”

Of all the things I’ve collected over the years, those are the two items I’d save first if the house ever caught fire.

I would absolutely risk second-degree burns.

Third-degree burns would require a quick risk assessment.

Those pieces mean that much to me.

One represents a childhood hero who made me fall in love with hockey, and the Edmonton Oilers.

The other represents a pioneer that changed the game and communities forever.

There’s still room on my mantel for a signed picture of Doug Grandy.

Would that be weird?

A bogan is an old word for a side channel or quiet inlet connected to a river. It stems from the indigenous word meaning a marshy body of water connected to a river.

The only place I have ever heard of the term bogan is along the Miramichi River.

On the back end of my family’s homestead in Doaktown, there is a bogan.

It’s a place to go and sit and think.

If you are ever looking for my father, Norman Betts, there’s a good chance that’s where he will be.

He’ll be dressed in a stained t-shirt, and ball cap covered in sawdust, and a pair of shoes that are long past their usefulness, but just too comfortable to throw away.

From his chair on the top of the hill, he’ll be spending equal time napping and thinking.

Just down the hill from his perch is where he caught his first fish.

It’s where he and his brother, Timmy, learned to skate and chase pucks before they were lost in the open glade just downriver.

He’ll be thinking about the many family reunions that happened in that yard behind him, and how his parents never thought twice about being the host for the hundreds of people that would gather for the Holmes reunions.

You may find him with a shit eating grin on his face, or with his eyes filled with tears.

He’s a crier, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

You don’t just go to the bogan to think about years gone by.

It’s where ideas are born.

And if you know my father, he’s the champion of crazy ideas.

The scary thing is that some of them work out.

Something about the stillness of the bogan allows you to drown out the noise and allows you to think.

That’s why the bogan isn’t really a place.

It’s a state of mind.

It’s where dreamers go to learn from the lessons of the past, contemplate the future, and wonder to themselves if they have one more crazy idea left in them.

It’s hard to find a bigger dreamer than my dad.

Small town, big dreams

Doaktown, New Brunswick may not be the center of the world, but it’s where Dad’s story begins.

Growing up, it feels like it’s a place that you need to leave, and then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering why it pulls you back.

You’ll find that it is a trend in his story.

In his early years, Grandfathers’ job with Lounsbury’s took them to Alma and Chatham, and that’s where he spent his early years, and those places still hold a special place in his heart.

But the draw of Doaktown and the entrepreneurial spirit that turns out is hereditary, brought them home.

Side by side with grandmother, they operated the Simpson Sears outlet, started Cyril T Betts Grocery Store, and later rebranded it to The Lucky Dollar Grocery store.

When the larger retail chain came to town, they didn’t throw in the towel; they set out selling auto parts at Western Tire.

They sold chainsaws, delivered and installed appliances, and in between serving their customers, Nanny helped the seasonal workers throughout the river valley file their unemployment claims.

I remember sitting in her office and watching her fill out the forms, in perfect cursive, and asking those seasoned woods men to sign at the bottom. More times than I can remember, the simply marked an X. I remember asking her why they only signed an X, and she informed me of the reality. These were men that I would come to know in later years, some of the wisest people I’ve ever met, and they couldn’t read or write.

I get it now why she would sit at the table with me for hours reading books and making sure I kept the pencil between the lines.

I never got a chance to thank her for it.

Deals were sealed by a handshake, and the strength of their word. Everyone deserved a second chance. But not a third.

For a time, they lived in an apartment above the store, so it was an easy commute.

Eventually, they moved up the road to the house Nanny grew up in, and where her father still lived.

Blaine Murray was a war hero, who was awarded the Military Cross for bravery during the First World War. From a young age, Dad was taught through example the value of service, and it became engrained in the family’s fabric.

Great Grandfather Murray had the honour of serving as president of the Doaktown Legion. Today, the title belongs to his grandson.

Nanny’s brothers answered the call to enlist in World War II. Bob, Raysh, and Bonny all came home. Their oldest brother, Don, rests in Beny- Sur-Mer Canadian War Cemetery, east of the Village of Reviers, France.

If there was one day that was sacred in the household, it would be November 11^th. The sacrifices were always at the top of the mind. They had faces, names, and an empty chair that served as a reminder of the cost of freedom.

Grandad’s mother, Grace Betts, moved into the big house. She brought with her the gift of music.

From her, Dad inherited the ability to pick up almost any musical instrument and master it as if he’d been doing it for years. For a fiery young lad, music became an outlet and place to channel his energy into something positive.

To this day, he is most comfortable behind his guitar. Give him the chance, and a willing audience; he’ll pull out his harmonica and blast out Maple Sugar like he’s done it a million times before. To be fair, he probably has.

If music gave him an outlet, the Boy Scouts gave him direction.

He earned the rank of Chief Scout, and with that came lessons in leadership, responsibility and self-reliance.

The woods, rivers and streams through central New Brunswick became his classroom and instilled in him a love for nature that has never gone away. To this day, he can tie the proper knot for the proper situation with ease.

The skills he gained from the Boy Scouts have provided useful throughout his life, whether it be academics or business.

He dreamed of a life beyond the Miramichi watershed, and soon after he stood on the stage at his graduation from Doaktown Consolidated High School and delivered his valedictorian speech, he boarded a train to St-Jean-Sur-Richelieu, Quebec, for a summer of basic training, and to the Royal Military College in the fall.

There was a big world out there, and he intended to see it.

But the world has a funny way of telling you that something isn’t your destiny. The recruiters missed something in the process that they should have caught.

He was blind in his right eye.

Instead of lining up for inspection, he found himself with an honourable discharge, a train ticket home, and a quiet car ride home with his father from Fredericton Junction.

It wasn’t the homecoming he had envisioned.

Take me home, Country Roads

Grandad pulled some strings and got him a job at NB Power, which gave him stability, a pay cheque. and time to figure out what was next.

The next stop was the University of New Brunswick and the business program, and a chartered accountant designation.

The military may not have been his destiny, but numbers turned out to be.

Balancing the books was something he was wired to do.

As a kid, I can remember looking over the top of his desk and watching in amazement as his fingers tickled the keys on the adding machine. He would tear off the tape, take a quick second look, and move on. No double checking, or second guessing, because there weren’t any mistakes.

He could look at a page of numbers and somehow make it all make sense. That gift wasn’t passed on to me.

Fortunately, there are people out there willing to pay for that skill.

With the help of family and friends, he built the house we grew up in with his own hands, from stump to baseboards. He fell the trees, pealed the bark, drove the nails, and raised the rafters.

His reward? A night dancing at the Legion.

The dance was usually just part one.

Part two happened when the bartender hollered last call, and Dad would jump on the stage and invite everyone to our place to keep the party going.

We would be woken up by the sound of the door opening, people’s voices, bottles clinking, and cigarette smoke wafting through the open ceilings.

With the first strum of the guitar, I knew that it was time to crawl down from my bunk bed and join the party.

It’s where I was introduced to Johnny Cash, The Everly Brothers, and Porter Wagoner.

And Ricky Skaggs.

In our house in 1984, his Highway and Heartaches album was a staple on the record player. Ricky Skaggs was coming to Fredericton. There’s no way they were going to the concert at the Aitken Center without me.

My first concert at the age of 6, was the best concert I have ever been to.

I can’t tell you what I got for Christmas that year, but I can recall the playlist from the concert that night.

My parents had a knack for creating experiences.

Kitchen parties that lasted until the sun came up.

Road trips to hidden gems.

Memories and stories that last a lifetime.

Toys disappear, but experiences last forever.

The Wanderer

Variety may be the spice of life. For Dad, it’s his philosophy.

Sitting still isn’t really an option. Why have only one thing on the go when you can have three or four balls in the air at the same time?

Having a few irons on the fire keeps his mind sharp, his body moving, and his eye on the next opportunity.

Sometimes opportunities show up in the most unexpected places.

Like a chance meeting with an old college prof when walking through downtown Fredericton.

UNB needed someone to teach a course. They asked Dad if he was interested.

“When do you need me to do it?”
The answer? “Tomorrow.”

So, on a whim, he accepted, after clearly taking the time to think it through.

At the time I am sure he just thought it was just a way to make some extra quid, but it soon opened the door to a career that would play a big part in defining him and giving him experiences that perhaps he never thought possible.

He left the accounting practice and accepted a job teaching at UNB in Saint John.

He didn’t just open the door to opportunity; he kicked it off the hinges.

As it turns out, UNBSJ was just the start of the adventure.

The next chapter took him and the whole family to Kingston, Ontario, and Queen’s University. The goal was to get a PhD in Finance.

With the Dodge Caravan loaded up, and a canoe strapped to the top, we left the only place we had known and headed west towards the 401.

We made the Clampett’s look high class.

The extrovert in him relished at the thought of meeting new people, experiencing new cultures, and bettering his education at one of the finest institutions in the world.

For me, it was a different story. It was like I was thrown into an episode of Degrassi Junior High.

Even at that young age, I was very self-aware. I knew when I spoke, it was pure Miramichi dialect and jargon that came out of my mouth. I knew that the dry humour that I had wouldn’t hit the same as it did at home.

I went from being one of the better players on the ice to not making the cut. I went from a classroom of peers that looked and talked like me, to sitting in a portable that looked like the United Nations.

While dad was busy preparing his thesis, I was marking days off on the calendar, counting down the days until we got home.

Two years later, the same Dodge Caravan with the same canoe strapped on top was pointed east on the 401. I survived. We headed home.

For me, returning to normal was welcomed.

But nothing for Dad is ever really normal. Normal is boring.

If the World had a Front Porch, like we did back then

He transferred to UNB in Fredericton, which meant he was home every night. Most people would view this as a chance to slow down a little bit.

Not an option.

One personal ambition that everyone knew was in the back of his mind, but never openly talked about, came to reality.

Politics.

The veranda on the homestead in Doaktown has seen more intense political debate than the chamber of the House of Commons.

For Dad, the transition to politics seemed like the natural next move. He was educated, successful, and lived for the chance to discuss and debate public policy. And he was just young and naive enough to tackle it full tilt.

He sought the Southwest Miramichi riding nomination in 1995 and lost.

In 1997, the leadership of the Progressive Conservative Party of New Brunswick was up for grabs, so the obvious next move was to go after that.

That summer, the whole family went on a tour. No days off.

The political junkies counted delegates and votes.

We counted ice cream shops and campgrounds.

We crisscrossed the province, visiting communities I’d never heard of and roads I couldn’t find on a map.

I call it the summer we fell in love with New Brunswick.

It was also the summer we fell in love with John Prine.

The Bettsmobile had exactly one CD. It was the album, Souvenirs. We wore it out.

To this day, when I hear certain songs from that album, it transports me back to someplace in New Brunswick during the summer of ‘97.

On convention day, the members of the party chose Bernard Lord to lead them into the next election.

I’m not going to pretend it didn’t sting. It did.

But politics has a funny way of teaching you a lesson sometimes that isn’t reflected when the votes are tallied.

He didn’t win the leadership, but he gave us a summer that we will never forget, and a soundtrack to go with it.

Almost 30 years later, those memories have lasted far longer than any convention result ever had.

If there is one family trait that has been passed down through generations, it’s persistence.

After the nomination and leadership loses, a lesser man would have thrown in the towel.

In June of 1999, he stood on the stage on the lawn of the New Brunswick legislature and laid his hand on the bible and took his oath of office.

The bible that he used wasn’t just any bible. It was perhaps the most prized family heirloom. It was the bible that was found on his uncle Don’s body in France during the Second World War.

A reminder that service comes in many forms.

He was asked to serve as the Minister of Finance, although he prefers to call it by another name.

Minister of Sins.

The department was responsible for alcohol, gambling, cigarettes, and taxes. If there was a vice involved, it landed in his inbox.

He balanced the provincial books, and when delivering the speech on the floor of the legislature, he had innate ability to take something as intricate and complicated as the budget and dumb it down and speak to the average person in a way that made sense.

After 4 years in government, and a shuffle to the department of Business New Brunswick, the universe told him that it was time to start a new chapter.

The voters of Southwest Miramichi decided they wanted someone else to represent them in Fredericton.

He will tell you he was fine with it, and to a degree he probably was, but in an ego driven business, an election loss leaves a deep bruise.

If he got anything for his time in politics, it was a path to start a new beginning.

The new beginning started by using the connections and relationships he built while he was in government. Opportunity came knocking.

It gave him the confidence to walk into a corporate board room and walk out with connections to a dozen more.

He started writing his next chapter before the election signs came down.

Sitting still wasn’t an option.

Old Dog and Children and Watermelon Wine

We recently spent a week together in Panama. Just me and him.

We walked on the beach. We ate fresh food. We compared our blood sugar levels. We observed our surroundings.

We talked like we hadn’t talked in years or maybe ever.

Every night before bed, we would sit and watch the sun go down and plan the next day and talk about what was next.

I asked him what his proudest accomplishment was, and the reply was quick and to the point.

“I have 5 kids and they all turned out pretty OK. They’re adults now, and they all have families of their own, and they are all great parents.”

After all his professional accolades, if that is the measuring stick for success, he’ll take it.

He mentioned that a few weeks after we got back to Canada, he was going to Saint John for to roast a pig for his friend Wayne’s 92^nd birthday party.

If Dad has one true friend, it’s Wayne Jollineau.

Wayne could quite possibly be the most interesting man in the world.

They met at UNBSJ and hit it off from day one. Their mutual love of nature and the satisfaction of ending the day around a campfire with a beverage in hand has bonded them for life.

They ventured to the Northwest Territories and tackled the Nahanni River, the Allagash Waterway in northern Maine, the Bowron Lakes in British Columbia, and countless trips down the Miramichi from Half Moon.

They once went on a ski trip to Ottawa and flew there on a 2 for 1 Valentine’s Day Sweetheart Special Deal from Air Canada.

I’m not one to judge. What happens on the ski trip, stays on the ski trip.

I tagged along on the trip to Saint John because I hadn’t seen Wayne in years and because I would drive just about anywhere for a free meal.

As the pig spun on the spit over the fire, and generations of Wayne’s family arrived to celebrate his day and a life well lived, we sat on his deck overlooking the Kennebecasis River.

I listened. I watched.

I didn’t just watch Wayne, who at the ripe age of 92 still walked with the same spring in his step that he had 40 years earlier when I first met him.

I didn’t just watch how when a new guest arrived, he greeted them with a huge smile and firm hug or handshake.

I didn’t just watch as he jumped from his chair to make sure everyone had everything they needed.

I watched Dad, watching him.

At four o’clock sharp, two ducks named Belinda and Charlie landed on the lawn for their daily feeding.

Wayne lit up.

Dad noticed.

Later, Wayne disappeared because the hummingbird feeder needed to be filled.

Dad noticed.

Someone suggested a campfire.

Wayne practically bounced out of his chair to gather wood.

Dad noticed.

To Wayne, if the day ended by the campfire, it was a day well lived.

Dad knew exactly what he was looking at. Maybe he was looking for the secret to living a long, healthy life, too.

Maybe he was just appreciating the moments with one of his oldest buddies.

If Dad ever had a soulmate, it would be Wayne.

Not in the Hallmark movie sense.

In the “let’s disappear into the wilderness for a week with a canoe and poor decision-making skills” sense.

As I watched, I marveled at the simplicity of Wayne’s 92 years.

My thesis on life from that day is pretty simple.

Do the big things well but do the little things right.

That night, driving home, I was listening to a podcast, and thinking about the day. I was trying to put together words to describe the life philosophy I had just witnessed.

Then someone on the podcast spit out a line that nailed it.

“Why paint a Picasso when dogs playing poker will do.”

Perfect.

Paradise

Eventually, all roads lead back to the bogan.

And if you wander down there, chances are you’ll find him exactly where you left him, sitting quietly in the shade, wearing the same worn-out shoes, the same sawdust covered hat, and the same t-shirt sporting a fresh chocolate ice cream stain.

Some things never change.

In a funny way, the bogan and chocolate ice cream have a lot in common.

Neither is flashy. Neither is trying to impress anyone.

But both are dependable. Both bring comfort. And both have survived every trend, fad, and bright new idea that promised to replace them.

When the world gets crazy, one needs a quiet place to think.

As I think of the old man, sitting there by himself at the bogan, staring out across the water, I can’t help but think of the final scene in the movie, A River Runs Through It.

You can almost hear the somber music playing as the sun descends through the trees, and the river flows by.

A lifetime of stories behind him. A few more stories left to write.

And enough time left to reflect on both.

The closing narration from Robert Redford has always felt like it belonged on the Miramichi as much as it did in Montana:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”

That’s why the bogan matters.

It’s more than a marshy backwater tucked behind the family’s home. The current slows down just enough to let you look backward for a while.

Thinking about the roads you’ve travelled, the mistakes you’ve made, the wins you’ve celebrated, and the people you have shared them all with.

If you happen to walk to the top of the hill by the river to visit him, don’t be fooled into thinking he’s doing nothing.

He’s taking inventory.

It’s a quiet place along the shore to sit, listen, and remember.

A bogan, it turns out, is a pretty good place for that.

When I was 18 years old, I got hired at the local sawmill in Doaktown.

Like most 18-year-olds, I arrived on the job site with a dangerous combination of cockiness, piss and vinegar, and absolutely no idea of how the world worked.

I thought I was going to use my youth and capable body to fly my way through the ranks, and in no time be running the place.

Yeah, that didn’t work out so well for me. Reality punched me square in the face on day one.

The people I was working alongside had seen many young bucks come and go. Youthful enthusiasm didn’t impress them.

The reality came in the form of the seasoned men and woman who put in their time and invested their lives in the operation. Men used to run teams of horses in the woods from sunup to sundown bringing the tall pines of central New Brunswick to market.

Their bonus that they looked forward to was getting to do it all again the next day.

And they carried the scars of their trades with them,

Calloused hands. Hunched shoulders. A limp that came from years on the end of a peavey or Husqvarna chainsaw.

They showed up. Every day. The first ones on the green chain in the morning, and the last ones to walk up over the hill when the mill whistle blew. No excuses.

The 5 years I spent working at the sawmill was the most valuable education I have ever received.

I learned a lot of lessons there. Usually the hard way.

I learned that nobody cares about how talented you think you are.

If you wanted more responsibility, you had to show them why you deserved it.

If you want to lead, people need to respect you.

No one jumps to the front of the line because they tell themselves they are destined for bigger things.

You had to earn your stripes.

Long before he was sitting around a cabinet table or pounding for sale signs in someone’s yard, Jeff Carr was just a boy from Geary trying to figure it out.

He grew up in a house where supper was always guaranteed.

His father owned a construction company, and hustled to get his loaders, dozers, and dump trucks in line for jobs throughout central and southern New Brunswick.

Their survival meant getting the gear to the right job sites at the right time, and excuses didn’t pay the bills.

Those lessons have stuck with him throughout his life and career.

They weren’t learned in a classroom or a boardroom. They were learned in a dump truck on a dusty road in Geary.

He grew up playing hockey on the outdoor rinks in Fredericton Junction, where he lived with his younger brothers and single mother. If the temperature dipped to –30, it just meant you had to skate harder.

Back then, being able to play in indoor rinks like Soldier’s Arena in Oromocto was only a dream for the kids. He thought the ice time inside was saved for the adults.

When his family moved to Alberta in 1984, it was foreign to him that he would be allowed to skate in the rink with the roof over top.

The indoor ice wasn’t the only culture shock.

For the first time he can remember, Jeff was surrounded by people who didn’t all come from the same place or look or sound the same. His east coast drawl and backwoods dry humor was just as foreign to them. Growing up in rural New Brunswick had given him a feeling that the world was small. Alberta showed him how much of the world existed beyond it.

The family’s goal was to be able to eventually move back home to New Brunswick.

Alberta had the opportunity, but New Brunswick was home.

They moved back in time for Jeff to graduate from Oromocto High School with the friends that he had played hockey with on the outdoor rinks. In the fall, he enrolled in the science program at the University of New Brunswick.

After a year at UNB, he thought it was time to see what the real world had to offer. There is nothing more real world than early mornings, dusty steel toed boots, and the family construction business.

Working for a seasoned industry veteran like your dad has a funny way of putting things into perspective.

On one of his first solo missions in the dump truck to a jobsite in Welsford, his father gave him some advice that has stuck with him throughout his life.

“Don’t pull in and expect to jump to the front of the line.”

There was a pecking order. The old dogs had earned their spots. Showing up with your dump truck filled with ambition wasn’t enough.

Wait your turn.

Do the work.

Earn your stripes.

It wasn’t just advice about the construction business. It was advice about life.

Eventually, Jeff found himself in charge of the family business, and the responsibilities that came with it.

Managing people and machinery, maintenance schedules, job bids, and making sure the bank account stayed in the black.

He built relationships with the old dogs who waited in line with him and showed him that the goal at the end of the day was to get home safe and enjoy the finer things in life.

Like a cone of Maple Walnut ice cream.

Maple walnut ice cream isn’t flashy. It’s steady and a little old school, in a good way. And it’s secretly more interesting than you think it will be.

Like most businesses, there comes a point where you must decide what road you want to go down. In this case, both figuratively and literally.

Does he go all in and push his chips to the center of the table?

Or scale back and have a few pieces of equipment that he could haul and operate himself as a one man show.

In this industry, it’s hard to stay afloat in the middle.

Somewhere along the way, the hustle that he had when he was young and first shifted the dump truck into gear and headed to Welsford was fading. The long days and diesel fumes were growing stale.

It was time to look for something new.

He didn’t have to look far to find it.

Politics started to become a new family business.

His brother Jody had succeeded in being elected as a Member of the Legislature and earned his stripes as a backbencher and opposition member before finding himself sitting around the cabinet table as Minister of Education.

His other brother Jack had carved out career in the radio industry, mastering the art of communication and soon found himself sitting with Jody in the legislature.

Opportunity soon appeared.

Jody found himself in need of an executive assistant.

The description looked eerily similar to posting for a construction job.

Long, unpredictable hours.

Problem solving and dealing with people.

Being ready to go if the phone rang.

Most importantly, they have to be able to trust that you’ll get the job done.

He checked all the boxes off in the job description.

He traded in his steel toed boots for soft soled shoes.

It was time to earn his stripes again and see if the lessons he learned in the construction industry could be carried over to the halls of government.

It turns out that the lessons learned in the old family business did in fact carry over, and he worked side by side with his brothers learning the craft of what it took to be an elected official.

Eventually Jody and Jack both decided to go and try their hands at other things and write new chapters.

Once again, Jeff found himself alone in the family business.

In 2014 he sought the nomination in the riding of New Maryland-Sunbury and was successful when the voters went to the ballot that fall.

He honed his craft on the opposition benches by watching his colleagues perform on the floor of the house. He watched game tape on CPAC and YouTube of seasoned political veterans weaving through the tapestry of the house.

He was re-elected in 2018 and again in 2020 and served in cabinet as Minister of the Environment and Minister of Transportation and Infrastructure.

As big of an honour as it was to sit around the cabinet table, Jeff never lost focus on who his real bosses were and that their priorities were his priorities.

The people that he was elected to represent.

One minute you are in a boardroom talking about how New Brunswick is going to lower its emissions. The next you are in a rec center in Rusagonis talking about chip seal on the Whittaker Road.

And somewhere between meetings Jeff had to gear up or gear down in order not to tear out his transmission.

He mastered the art of flipping the switch from the stress of the job and personal life, to performing for a crowd of people who expect you to be on whenever you walk into the room.

And the voters noticed. The results tell their own story.

In 2014, Jeff got 3391 votes.

In 2018, 3844 votes.

In 2020, he was elected again with 5342 votes.

He increased his vote share in every election.

That’s not luck. That’s consistency.

That’s earning your stripes.

Whether they want to admit it or not, every politician has a shelf life.

The challenge is how they determine when they want to head to the register.

There are two ways for it to happen. They can decide themselves when their expiration date is, or the electorate can do it for them.

Only Jeff Carr can really tell you what his reasons were for not seeking re-election in the 2024 campaign. Some of the reasons are on public record. Others he keeps to himself for his own private reflection.

After 10 years in the spotlight and serving the people, it was time to change the oil. It turns out that politics and real estate kind of follow the same template, so the transition came naturally.

Long hours and being on call 24/7.

Showing up when your clients call.

Building relationships with other agents to get the deal done, and you can be as successful as you want to be.

The lawn signs are still there, just now instead of them saying elected; the goal is to have them say SOLD.

While still a newcomer to the real estate game in some ways, the lessons he has learned throughout his career path have provided him with the skills to succeed in anything he puts his mind to.

For now, politics is in the rearview mirror, but the lessons he got from it are always top of mind.

Here is the thing about earning your stripes.

No one can say that they were handed to you.

Politics is like watching a squirrel trying to cross the road.

One minute it’s confidently headed over the blacktop with a mouth full of acorns to store for the winter’s solstice.

The next it’s ducking and weaving through traffic, hoping to just get through today, and that tomorrow brings a better bounty.

Other times, it can’t get out of the way out of its own shadow.

The current session of the New Brunswick legislature is wrapping up, and the PC Party Caucus has had their sights set squarely on the governing Susan Holt led liberals.

They have done a valiant job on holding the governments’ feet to the fire on the budget, spending, cuts to the provincial veterinarian program, and the closing of tourism facilities throughout the province.

With the legislature closing, the focus will shift from the decisions of the government of the day, to the quest for the Tory party’s top job.

Watching the Progressive Conservative Party of New Brunswick leadership race this week is kind of like watching the squirrel.

With the eyes now shifted from the Legislature to the summer barbecue circuit, the focus will be on candidates Daniel Allain and Don Monahan. It’s their time to meet New Brunswickers and plead their case.

They need to plead their case as to why the party members should choose them to lead the party into the next election.

It should be about what they believe.

What will they do if they win the leadership?

How will they attract new members, volunteers, and community leaders to put their name on the ballot?

That is the distinction that needs to be made.

This week a shiny object appeared on the road that has taken the focus off the ultimate prize.

Identity politics. Language and the urban-rural divide.

Much has been made about Daniel’s roots, and the fact that he grew up in an urban neighborhood where he played in the streets with people with similar backgrounds, who are undoubtedly some of his biggest supporters.

Daniel grew up in an Acadian community, surrounded by friends who share the rich history and pride in their community. He is proud to be Acadian, and a proud New Brunswicker.

The same as I am a proud New Brunswicker who has Scottish and Loyalist roots.

The same as the thousands of people who will gather in Miramichi next month will wrap themselves in shamrocks in Canada’s Irish Capital.

The same as the Brayonne in Madawaska have gathered every summer since 1978 to celebrate their culture at the Foire Brayonne.

Where you grew up or your mother tongue should not be grounds for disqualification.

To suggest that it drives a wedge in the party that needs to grow its base into the urban centers and northern communities.

I quote my grandfather almost every day. So here is “Grandad’s quote of the day”:

“Don’t pull yourself up by pulling another man down. Be better.”

Wise words from a wise man.

No one loves a tory party language battle more than the New Brunswick Liberal Party. It makes them lick their chops.

Premier Holt’s biggest fear is that the Tories select a francophone candidate as their next leader. It takes that card off the table.

The language issue has put a wedge in the party for years. That’s what the Liberals are hoping for.

A divided tory party produces one thing.

Liberal governments.

Let’s look at history to provide some context.

Brian Mulroney arguably wielded the biggest sword at Joe Clark, in the coup to overthrow his leadership in 1983.

It triggered a leadership convention for that spring, where Mulroney won the final ballot over Clark.

And this is where the first test of leadership kicked in.

He built bridges with the rival’s camps. He extended the olive branch and started repairing the bridges.

Mulroney knew he needed Clark by his side if they were going to form government and stop the liberals.

But he also knew he was going to need people from every facet of the party from across the country.

He was going to need a steady hand in populist Alberta, and he found it in Don Mazankowski.

He was going to have to appeal to Bay Street, and he convinced investment executive Michael Wilson to look after the country’s finances.

He had to get friendly with the separatist leaning Quebecers to make inroads in La Belle Province.

He was going to need the wit and common-sense approach of John Crosbie in Newfoundland to give Atlantic Canada a strong voice at the table.

Different regions.

Different ideas.

Different priorities.

One team.

The result was the second largest election victory in Canadian history.

It’s really not that complicated.

Political parties don’t win by segregating their members based on where they live or what language they speak.

The win by convincing people who have the same goal of governing, to pull in the same direction.

A divided Progressive Conservative Party of New Brunswick will never form government.

It’s not just my opinion.

It is a lesson that has been learned over and over again throughout its existence.

It’s exactly what the Liberals are betting on.

I’ve seen how they gamble with our tax dollars. They don’t have a good poker face.

Whoever is announced the winner on the stage in October will immediately start their first test.

Uniting the party.

Building bridges and creating a team in each of the 49 ridings.

Showing the electorate that they are ready to govern on day one.

Let’s forget about the shiny object in the middle of the road.

It was never the squirrel’s objective anyways.

The objective was to get to the other side.

For Progressive Conservatives, the objective should be to get to the other side of the house in the Legislative Assembly.

United, and ready to govern.

I’m not one to treat myself in big ways.

Small rewards.

The occasional steak on the grill.

A bag of M&Ms here and there. Of course, ice cream.

That’s about the size of it.

But I was at a point where I was due to treat myself to something bigger.

I just didn’t know what it was.

During a casual chat with my Father, he mentioned he was going to Panama for the month of April, and that I should come.

His was sincere in his ask, and a bit tongue in cheek at the same time.

My answer was the usual, “maybe.”

Which meant I would think about it for 3 days, non-stop.

And that is exactly what I did.

The more I thought about it, the less it sounded like a vacation, and more of something that I needed to do.

A week away from real life.

No talk of politics, war, Trump, or any distractions that really didn’t matter.

No schedules, or phone notifications.

Just me and my dad.

One night my wife and I were sitting in the living room watching TV. I hit pause on the remote, and said, “I think I have to go to Panama with Dad.”

She looked at me, and with zero hesitation and said, “I think you do to.”

I booked my ticket.

Getting Lost on Purpose

We landed at the Panama City airport a little after noon on a Saturday. We were way to confident in our surroundings than two grown men whose only knowledge of the Spanish language was, “Cerveza” should be.

Our mission: see as much as we wanted to see and don’t look at our watches.

If we saw something interesting, we would stop. If we needed a cold drink, we would find one. If we got lost, we just chalked it up for being some place we hadn’t been before.

We also had a very important side mission.

Scout for potential therapists for Dad’s golden years. Like the kind of therapist that Billy Bob Thornton’s character acquired for his father, Sam Elliot in the TV series Landman.

This was strictly a research mission.

The drive into the city’s core was the first eye opener.

I have been to cities of this size before (around 2 million people.) The detail and pride in the architecture as we drove through caught my attention. No two buildings looked the same.

Some looked like they were an image generated by AI.

Others had the traditional colonial charm that Central America is known for.

It was refreshing.

After a quick tour and history lesson, our driver dropped us off at the Central Panama Hotel in the heart of the city’s Old Town. You could tell that Panama had pride.

Beside our hotel was the Mayors Palace. Around the corner, the Presidential Palace. Scattered in between amongst all the other buildings were seven catholic churches.

Some immaculately preserved; others in ruins but deserving of the same respect.

The beer was cold, and the food was fresh, and the people we met on the street were polite and filled with pride. Shops were filled with locals and tourists and handcrafted souvenirs. The waterfront was a crap shoot of vendors selling everything from jewelry to fresh fruit and traditional Panamanian baked goods that were made that morning. It was a cultural experience wrapped up in a farmer’s market.

After a night cap at the hotel bar, it was off to bed. Our driver was picking us up at 7:30 am.

From Old Town to the Canal

I am by nature an early riser. And vacation is no exception.

Knowing our driver would be picking up at 7:30 to take us to our destination. I sprung from the bed shortly after 5 am and headed downstairs to watch the city wake up.

After having just been through a Canadian winter, the heat that hit me when I walked through the doors of the hotel and on to the street felt like therapy.

I wandered the same streets that we had the night before, peaking in the windows and taking in anything that I might have missed. I was only there for a short time; I wanted to see it all.

I walked to the waterfront, this time as the sun began to appear. In the distance, you could see the giant ships lined up as they waited their turn to go through the Panama Canal.

Millions, if not billions of dollars of cargo, sat just a few miles away in the distance.

I met vendors in the sidewalk, carrying their good to market, setting up for the day to share their creations with the tourists. Instead of scrapping the ice off their windshield like I was used to, they were wiping the sweat from their brow.

The city was waking up.

Our driver arrived at 7:30 on the dot, and we loaded up, and began our trip to our destination just outside of the town of Las Tablas.

First, we had to make a stop. We couldn’t be this close to it without checking it out.

The Panama Canal.

To say it was extraordinary is an understatement.

We watched a ship rise from the final lock and begin its voyage from the Pacific to the Atlantic.

The ship moved slowly, guided by small tugboats, past us. Its cargo was 5000 new cars.

I stood there for a moment and processed what I was seeing.

This is truly one of the largest economic engines in the world. Not Bay Street, Wall Street or this trading room floor. We were at a center of what was an engineering marvel, as the heartbeat of the global economy floated by us.

And there we were. Two guys from Doaktown standing in the middle of it.

It was surreal.

We also wondered if the captain of the giant ship would be about to maneuver a flat-bottomed boat with a 20 horsepower Mercury up the Miramichi while dodging ice cakes in mid-April.

We highly doubted it. They’re not that skilled.

It was time for our journey to our destination.

The place built by Dreamers

It would be a four-hour drive from the gates of the Canal to where we were staying at Playa El Uverito, about ten minutes outside of the town of Las Tablas.

I fully expected to nod off during the drive.

Not this time.

For every second of the drive, there was something new or different to look at.

New businesses, houses, kids playing baseball or soccer, roadside vendors selling fresh mangos.

And the billboards.

They didn’t just grace the roadside; they defined it.

They were nothing like the cookie cutter roadside advertisements that you see on the Trans Canada between Edmunston and Aulac. They didn’t have to be approved by a bureaucrat from Fredericton.

They were works of art. They were big and colourful. They stood out. They made you remember what they were selling.

They did what they were intended to do.

Finally, we made it to our destination.

We walked through the gate and the first thing I noticed wasn’t the ocean, or the pool or the palm trees.

I noticed the wood.

No matter where I travel, the woodworker in me always notices those things first.

Big slabs, small pieces, and pieces that were twisted in ways that I didn’t think possible. Exotic pieces that I had never heard of before. It was everywhere.

Handcrafted carvings were strategically places around the property. It’s if they were telling their own story.

Tikis, totem poles, animal carvings. The more I looked, the more I found. I know after a week I didn’t see every work of art.

Whoever was responsible for these, I had to meet. They were my spirit animal.

And then they appeared.

Phil McIntyre and Gloria Escobar. They owners of the rental units where we had set up shop.

Every great vacation story includes people you meet in your travels that make the memories stick with you forever.

Phil and Gloria are no exception.

Phil is Canadian military veteran. He’s a former real estate agent and home developer in Fredericton. He not only had travelled around the globe. He’s studied every place he has been.

He’s a bit brash and not shy to share his opinions. But when he talks, you listen.

The man knows the people, the places, the history, and the politics of the places he’s been. He’s versed in the way things work, where you should go and where you should stay away from.

The kind of knowledge that can’t be found on the internet or in travel guides.

He isn’t just a Canadian living in Panama. He has immersed himself in the community.

For all of Phil’s big ideas to come to fruition, he needed a spark plug to make sure that the piston didn’t get blown through the engine.

That’s where Gloria comes in.

Warm, gracious and patient.

She is the one that keeps the wheels turning so the whole operation doesn’t slide into the Pacific Ocean.

One person comes up with the dreams; the other person comes up with the plan.

Together, they make it happen.

It’s much bigger than just a rental property on the Azeuro Peninsula.

They are building their life there.

Part resort, part experience.

When those things are put together, it’s an adventure.

Phil’s story starts in Cape Breton.

Gloria’s, in Columbia.

Phil spent 25 years in the military, serving Canada around the globe. After he got out, he set up shop in Fredericton and became one of the city’s top real estate agents.

That wasn’t enough. He bought, renovated and flipped and rented houses throughout the capital region.

Underneath all his success, a sad reality of the life of a military veteran was setting in.

He watched as many of his comrades in arms struggled from the effects of their service to their country.

Too many of them had fallen victim to the harsh realities that come with a life outside of the uniform.

He was working his ass off in business, but the hustle it took to succeed wasn’t baring the fruit he desired.

He needed something, and some place new.

He tried Mexico. He tried Belize. Neither had the soil necessary for his roots to take hold.

He found it in Panama.

He found the soil his roots could finally grow in.

Once he knew he had found his place, he sought out to find some company to share it with.

So, he went online.

He sent a message to a girl who’s profile he was drawn too.

The website had rules. You had three attempts to reach out to a person. If they didn’t respond after the third, you were blocked from reaching out again.

He sent the initial introductory message. No response.

Then, a second follow up message. Again, no response.

The third and final message was sent, with fingers crossed that it would stick.

Finally, she caved. Gloria responded.

Persistence paid off.

She didn’t know what she was in for.

Chocolate keeps it steady; Vanilla keeps in interesting

In most successful relationships, business and personal, you need a little contrast. It is especially true if the business relationship is with your life partner.

Gloria and Phil couldn’t be more different, and maybe that’s why it works.

Gloria is soft spoken and quietly confident. Practical, reliable, and a comfort seeker. The kind of person that rarely disappoints because she does what she says she will do.

She is the engine that keeps the operation running.

The promoter. The one who deals with the clients. And the one who make sure the clients are happy and come back for more.

She’s the chocolate ice cream. Dependable and popular for a reason.

Phil, well, he’s the vanilla ice cream.

Why?

Because you can add layers to vanilla and make it go in a completely different direction. You can add sprinkles and nuts. Chocolate or caramel sauce. And if you want to think big, you can turn it into a banana split.

Since trading in his parka for Hawaiian shirts, Phil has become a staple in community. He is a home builder and a real estate mediatory. He runs a pools installation business. And his woodcarvings are like works of art that could be displayed in any gallery around the world.

He admits he was the kid in school that got in trouble for not sitting still.

But instead of spending time how to reel in that excess energy, he figured out how to use it to his advantage.

Being vanilla isn’t boring. It’s a blank canvass.

If you ever meet Phil, you find that he doesn’t like to leave his canvass blank.

Almost Heaven

Phil and Gloria want you to have an experience in Panama, not just a vacation.

That’s how we found ourselves loaded into the back of their SUV and heading towards the town of Pedasi and the Punta Franca Hotel.

The adventure started the moment we left.

Phil doesn’t drive from point A to point B. He hits every letter in the alphabet on the way.

We stopped at the Monkey Bridge, to see if we could call the monkeys out of the jungle to put on a show for us. No luck that day.

We stopped at another bridge and threw bread we saved from breakfast and dog food in the river below for the turtles to feed on.

As we were watching, I noticed a movement just downstream. Mr. Crocodile decided we wanted to partake in snack time.

The turtles new their role. They moved to the side.

We stopped for a few minutes in the middle of nowhere, so Phil could stop and say Hi to a friend, and we picked mangos off their trees.

Lunch was at a beachside cantina on Guanico Beach where we washed down our ceviche with a cold Balboa beer and watched the surfers cut through the waves in the ocean in front of us.

Back on the road, the conversation slowed down and we enjoyed the views as we passed by. Occasionally, Phil or I would notice a tree of a log on the roadside and casually mention how beautiful it was and that we should stop and pick it up. The even suggestion of it brought forth a stern glare from Gloria, with the comment that he had enough wood.

Men, you know the look.

As we were driving along, and I was staring out the window, I thought to myself that it was nice to look down through a valley and not see a clearcut.

Then there it was.

Part of a teak plantation has just been harvested.

The difference was that it didn’t look like a scene where a tornado had blown through.

It was just a reminder that things can be done differently, depending on where you are in the world.

By late afternoon, we arrived at our hotel. Our hut was on top of a 100-foot ledge where below us the waves crashed into the rocks. Part thunderous, part meditative.

After a late dinner and a night cap on the deck overlooking ocean, I was spent. The day had won. It was time to hit the hay.

At 4 am, I found myself laying in the bed counting the rotations on the ceiling fan in above me. I rolled over and spotted the hammock outside on the deck.

Ever so gracefully, I managed to wrestle myself into to it.

I drifted in and out of sleep as the sound of the waves below hypnotized me, and the cool early morning air from the Pacific drifted in.

As the sun began to rise, I started thinking about some of the places that I have been lucky enough to experience.

I’ve sailed down the Miramichi River and boldly claimed there was no prettier place in the world.

I’ve dipped my toes into Lake Louise and almost driven off the road staring at the Rockies in Banff.

I’ve scrubbed the red sand stains off the bottom of my feet from walking on the beaches in Cavendish.

Any one of those places at time could have been described as Heaven.

Laying in that hammock, on top of that cliff while the waves crashed on the shore and the sun rose to announce a new day, I thought, was this as close as I was going to get?

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. That’s not for me to decide.

But in those early morning hours, laying in a hammock on top of a cliff, I concluded that if it was Heaven, it had a spectacularly beautiful view.

Leaving better than she found me

On our last full day at Gloria and Phil’s, I woke up extra early and positioned myself in my perch that I had claimed as my own. I wanted to take in as much as I could before we began our voyage home. Just me and a cup of coffee.

It was a Saturday morning, and the beach out front already had more activity on it than it had any other morning that week.

The locals had come out to enjoy it.

One man fished for supper while another family walked barefoot in the sand as the dog broke trail in front of them.

Small rewards after a week at work. Nothing over the top. Just enjoying the hand and the pleasures they’ve been dealt.

As we were packing up and saying our goodbyes to Phil and Gloria, I asked Phil one question.

“Will you adopt me?”

My father, jokingly acted like he was offended, but in reality, he was jealous because I asked the question first. He wanted them to adopt him too.

The bus drive back to Panama City was a sombre one.

The excitement of arriving had been replaced by the sadness of leaving.

The hardest part wasn’t leaving the beach or the pool.

It was leaving the people that made it feel like home.

Somewhere on the ride back to Panama City, I started drafting my adoption application.

I still haven’t heard back.

I went to Panama hoping to leave her better than I found her.

Truthfully, I left Panama better than she found me.

For those of you that are keeping track, my birthday is September 25^th.

I was born exactly nine months after Christmas.

I’ll let you connect the dots, but I like to think of myself as a Christmas miracle.

Birthdays have never been a big deal for me. I see them as a day of reflection.

I treat them like my own personal New Year’s.

They are a time to look back on the year that was and look forward to the year ahead and what it may bring.

My Grandmother would say that her favourite thing about Christmas was the meal she shared with her family.

I have the same philosophy about my birthday.

My only request is that there be chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting.

Nanny would make that same cake for me every year. No need to deviate and mess with perfection.

These days, my mother-in-law, Judi, has taken the torch from my grandmother and bakes my birthday cake.

I am happy to report that she is nailing it. Same secret ingredient. Love.

That’s the blueprint for how I celebrate the day.

A meal shared with loved ones.

Chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting.

Presents, appreciated, but not required.

In recent years, though, I have added another staple to the blueprint.

At some point during my birthday, I will get an alert on my phone that I have an audio message.

I will open it, and through the speaker on my phone I will hear the sweet, silky baritone voice of Richard Van Oord and a soothing rendition of Happy Birthday.

It’s not just a song, it’s a performance. The kind that would make Frank Sinatra seem like an amateur.

I look forward to it almost as much as I look forward to the cake.

Almost.

I met Jen and Richard through my sister Becky and her husband, Brad.

They had bought a house on Corbett Avenue in Fredericton, and it had a pool.

The best kind of pool to have is someone else’s pool.

I don’t know if Becky and Brad knew it at the time, but I was going to slowly establish squatters’ rights.

The deck around the pool needed to be replaced, so naturally, we scheduled the demolition of the old one for Saturday morning.

As Brad and I cut up the deck in manageable pieces, a truck with a trailer hooked on pulled in.

It was Richard and Jen Van Oord.

We went to work as a highly efficient demolition crew that you would see on HGTV.

Becky and Jen lounged in the sun by the pool and offered unsolicited advice. It’s a role they played well.

Before we knew it, the old deck was gone, and the trailer was loaded and strapped down.

Becky rolled out the barbecue, and lunch was on the grill.

I also have a gift for showing up when food is about to hit the table.

I call it my superpower.

This story isn’t about me, or my uncanny ability to sense when my sister fired up the grill from the other side of town.

It belongs to Jen and Richard.

It’s about how the son of a Dutch immigrant dairy farmer in Mactaquac met the daughter of a hardware store owner and nurse from Newton, Iowa.

It is a story about faith, figuring it out, adapting and stepping up when it counts.

There are thousands of miles in between, and more stories to tell that you can shake a stick at.

So, we had better get to it.

The Iowa Chapter

The natural career choice of the son of a farmer is agriculture.

So, when it was time for Richard to decide where he was going to continue his studies after high school, he had 3 options.

Option 1: Nova Scotia Agricultural College in Truro.

Too close to home. He wanted an experience.

Option 2: University of Guelph.

A little bit farther away, but something about Guelph didn’t feel right.

Option 3: Dordt University in Sioux Center, Iowa.

The most obvious choice.

Because if you are going to study agriculture, what better place than the Heartland with 30 million acres of farmland to learn from?

It wasn’t long before Richard met Jen. She was studying political science at Dordt.

Jen grew up in Newton, Iowa. Her father was a general contractor and hardware store owner; her mother was a nurse.

Newton is the home of the Maytag corporation, and the Maytag repairman, who apparently never had anything to do.

Here is a little piece of Iowa history that has absolutely no relevance to the Jen and Richard story.

If you drive 2 hours north of Newton, you will find the small town of Clear Lake.

At the Surf Ballroom, in Clear Lake, on February3rd, 1959, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and The Big Bopper played their final concert.

The small plane they were in crashed not long after.

The Day the Music Died.

Again, totally irrelevant to the story, but the music lover in me had to include it.

It didn’t take long for Jen and Richard to find each other. They traveled in the same circles.

There was a spark. But there was a catch.

Jen had a boyfriend who was studying to become a doctor.

Fast forward to the beginning of the second year at Dordt, and Jen no longer had a boyfriend.

She admits, openly and confidently and with zero shame, that she sought out Richard.

Using Jen’s brother car, Richard drove Jen and three of her girlfriends to a Christian rock concert. Petra and Steven Curtis Chapman.

The odds were in Richard’s favor. He had a 1 in 4 chance.

Obviously, he spun the lottery wheel, and it landed on Jen.

He took her out on a date and asked if he could hold her hand. She obliged.

That’s good old country boy respect right there.

Somewhere in there, you know there was an ice cream date. There had to be.

Jen would treat herself to Mint Chip Fudge.

Which makes sense. Mint Chip Fudge people are independent thinkers, organized, have a dry sense of humor, and values balance.

Richard is a Peanut Butter Fudge Crunch guy.

Loyal to their core.

Hardworking.

They don’t treat themselves; they reward themselves.

10 months after their first official date, they were married.

I’m not saying that the ice cream date sealed the deal. I’m not saying that it didn’t either. Their story has a dairy based theme. Just keep reading.

The Netherlands Chapter

So, what is the next logical move for newlywedded agriculture and poli sci grads? Hoping on a bird and flying over the Atlantic and settling in The Netherlands of course.

Royal Van Oord is a Dutch family-owned international marine contractor specializing in dredging, land reclamation, island construction and off sure windmills. Projects include the Palm Islands in Dubai, the island where the Hong Kong Airport now sits, and work on the Suez and Panama Canals.

Richard’s family has owned and operated this company for over 155 years. Richard’s grandfather was the head of the company when the planes wheels touched down carrying him and Jen.

Not only did Mr. Van Oord oversee the daily operation of one of the largest marine contractors in the world, but he also took the time to get to know his employees. He set out to know their names. Their spouse’s name. Their children’s names and what they did outside of the shipyard of the office.

Human Resources 101.

That kind of thing sticks with a person. Looking back, in any conversation with Richard, you may find yourself answering casual questions, mixed in subtly. Hmmm, I’m on to you!

Oh, and why is the Royal and the first of the company name? It’s not just strategic branding or because it sounds cool. They earned it.

The Monarch of the Netherlands has the authority to appoint the royal title to a company who meets the criteria of being leader in its field, having national significance, and it must have been in existence for at least 100 years.

That is the standard. And a pretty lofty one at that. The foundation of fierce determination, doing the right thing, and faith is imbedded in the bloodline.

The family really rolled out the red carpet for Richard and Jen’s arrival.

The set them up in a trailer in the parking lot of a bible school in the town of Zeist, and that is where they honeymooned.

Forget Paris or the Caribbean, give them 200 square feet of living space, a paved blacktop and enough extension cords to keep the lights on. Romance can happen anywhere.

While Richard started on the low rung of the ladder in the shipyards, learning the company trade from the bottom up, Jen spent her days working in the kitchen of the bible school.

While the opportunity of working their way up in the family business was alluring, the desire to head home became paramount.

Not back to Iowa, but to New Brunswick and the family farm in Mactaquac.

The Coming Home Chapter

The farm was 500 acres and had 160 cows that needed milking. Eventually, they purchased the farm from Richard’s father and set out to make it on their own.

Together, they went to work. Richard’s salary was the exact same for 10 years. $28,800. It never changed.

The cows ate first, and then the bills got paid. They figured out the rest after that.

While Richard kept the farm moving, Jen set out to find her place in the community.

She worked at Ernie Hicks’ boat shop in Mactaquac, spent some time at Kingswood, and eventually started selling cars at Saturn.

Somewhere along the way, New Brunswick stopped feeling like another stop on the journey and started feeling like home.

To Jen, it reminded her of Iowa 20 years before.

You didn’t have to call ahead to say you were coming to visit; you could just stop in, and the door was always open, and the coffee pot was always on.

Her roots started to take hold in the soil.

Richard joined the Milk Board with the Dairy Farmers of New Brunswick and became a milk inspector.

He knew each cow’s habits, movements and when one was looking to break loose. John Dutton had Yellowstone in Montana. Richard had dairy farms in New Brunswick.

Like the Dutton Ranch, the Van Oord Dairy farm had its challenges.

Only the enemy wasn’t land developers or cattle rustlers. It was feed bills, milk prices, and the monthly visit to the bank.

It all came to a head one day at the bank in Nackawic when Jen went in to pay the feed bill. They didn’t have enough money in the account to cover it. She had to borrow from their son’s account to pay the bill.

That was the breaking point.

That night, they sat at the kitchen table and planned their next move. Jen declared she was never putting on her rubber boots again.

The Reinvention Chapter

On October 30^th, 2018, they sold their cows and their milk quota and had enough money to last 6 months. They still lived in the house and on the farm that they have always had since they came back from Europe. They had just enough time to figure out what to do next.

Jen wrote the real estate exam and set off to chart her new path. Soon after, Richard got his license to help his bride establish their new venture. They approached it the same as they had with everything else. Steady. Loyal, and ready to do the work.

It turns out that real estate, like running a dairy farm, takes both of them to make it work.

Jen is the negotiator and closer. The one working on tomorrow’s deal when the ink isn’t even dry on today’s closing.

Richard refers to himself as the “parachute”.

While Jen is out front blazing the trail, Richard is coming behind catching all the little things that make the deal land safely.

Together, as always, they have built something new from a kitchen table discussion after one hard day at the bank.

To them, buying a house is not just a transaction. It’s about helping people write their next chapter and getting to watch their family story unfold.

The unlikely switch from farming to real estate has proved to be rewarding. It was a gamble that meant more than just paying the bills.

Somewhere on their mantle, tucked between university diplomas, old 4-H awards and a lifetime of family memories sit a reminder of how far they have both come.

The eXp Realty ICON award. An honour they earned together or being top producing agents that have achieved elite sales volume and contribute to the brokerages culture.

The same qualities that kept the farm running during the hard years carried over into the real estate world.

Trust. Teamwork. Longs days and sticking it out when things get messy.

And most importantly. Faith.

Their faith has given them courage and conviction to take the uncertain leaps. And their trust that there is someone or something looking over them to guide them is unshakable and ever present in their personal and professional lives.

Their company symbol isn’t something dreamed up by high priced consultants or branding professionals.

It’s personal. It means something.

A three-pronged key connected to a palm leaf.

The three prongs on the key represent the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit. A reflection of their faith that has guided them through every chapter.

The Palm Leaf reminds them of their Dutch heritage and their faith and spirituality.

The Palm Leaf also has a second meaning.

It represents growth and resilience.

It’s a symbol of endurance and adaption.

The ability to bend without breaking.

A lot like Jen and Richard’s story.

From Mactaquac, to Iowa, to The Netherlands, and back home to New Brunswick.

Rooted in family and faith, and the belief that even the hardest pivots in life can be the most rewarding.

Well, it finally happened.

One of my biggest fears since I started writing stories about people came to fruition.

I had a conversation with someone who said ice cream wasn’t really their thing.

How could I possibly relate?

What would we talk about?

Is this person OK?

I always said if this moment came, I’d get up and walk out.

Being the country boy gentleman that I am, I stuck around. Just to see.

I’m glad I did.

Richelle Plumstead isn’t an ice cream person.

She’s a spicy person.

And that makes for an interesting story.

Since she’s not into ice cream, I asked her what her sweet treat was.

Cheesecake. OK. We can be friends.

It tells me she is an all-in type of person. She is intense and doesn’t do things half assed, and she’s easy going and people oriented.

I guess ice cream isn’t the only metric that defines personality. I learned something new today.

Richelle’s story could have gone one way or another.

But she was determined to kick down doors and defy the odds.

She did it her way, on her terms, and broke through barriers and stereotypes that led her to a successful career in real estate, and a mantra she lives her life by.

We connected and agreed to meet for a chat. I suggested coffee. She suggested beer.

See. Spicy. I’m down with that.

Just Keep Pedaling

New York Yankees legend Yogi Berra once said, “If you come to a fork in the road, take it”

That might be the most relatable quote about Richelle Plumstead that there is.

If there is an opportunity out there waiting for someone to grab on and run with it, she is not going to politely wait for her turn. She is going to kick open the door and grab a chair and ask what’s up.

Growing up, Richelle’s family was constantly moving. House to house. Job to job. Out west to work, and back home to Fredericton, because, well, it was home.

Being the new kid in school after school sharpens your edges.

She learned pretty quickly that no one was going to hand her anything wrapped up in a bow. She was going to have to use her voice and stand up for herself.

Sometimes she was loud.

Other times she may have gone over the top.

Most times, it was effective.

Richelle had no interest in letting other people tell her who she was going to be.

She knows what she wants and she goes after it.

There are times before you get to the fork in the road that there are speedbumps that try to steer you to one road or the other.

Like, teenage pregnancy for one.

Richelle got pregnant at 14.

Was a single mother at 15. Morgan is her pride and joy and has made her the proud grandmother of 3 incredible grandkids.

She dropped out of school after grade 10 and went to work.

Richelle was ostracized by adults, including teachers, nurses, and doctors, but that only sharpened her edges even more.

She lived on Kingsley Road, on the outskirts of Fredericton City limits. She had a job at Annie’s Restaurant in Devon. She commuted daily, back, and forth.

On a bicycle.

A quick Google Maps estimate will tell you that it is approximately 20 kilometers, each way.

I’ll be right back. Just thinking about that makes me want to go take a nap.

She could have looked at the circumstances and seen it as a road to nowhere.

Richelle just kept pedaling.

Big Hair and Big Dreams

From Annie’s she found her way to the mall circuit and ran the gauntlet of retail stores.

She calls those days her “big hair” days. For those of you that were lucky enough to grow up in the 80’s and 90’s, you know what I’m talking about. Big bangs, teased hair all held together with enough hairspray to put a hole in the O-Zone layer.

She worked at Jeans Experts.

And Karuba

And Randy River

And Northern Elements.

And Fruits & Passions.

Sometimes working in two or three of these stores at once, and eventually, becoming manager in all of them.

One thing was obvious: Richelle knew her worth and wasn’t going to stop there. Her trajectory was trending upwards; she just wasn’t sure where she was going to land.

The 5 Year Cycle

Richelle has her own philosophy about life.

Live it in five-year cycles. Turn over a new leaf and look for new challenges.

New company.

New house.

New relationships.

You can almost set your calendar to it.

Complacency has never really been her thing.

Fredericton company Laagland Industries was in the heavy equipment business.

Richelle saw a need for them to have someone out in the field, selling their services. No one was out building relationships.

Instead of waiting for the opportunity to become available, she took matters into her own hands and made it happen.

She kicked open the metaphorical door to Mr. Laagland’s office and told him what he needed, and that he was going to create a position to fulfill those needs, and he was going to hire her.

Out of respect for identifying the need, and maybe a little bit of fear, he hired her on the spot.

How’s that for grabbing the fork in the road?

Her drawer is starting to get full.

Was there a learning curve? You bet.

Muddy job sites weren’t exactly accustomed to have women walk on to them like they owned the operation.

There was skepticism and questions about who this woman was that was telling them what they need.

They didn’t know how relentless Richelle was. She kept showing up, asking questions, and making her pitch.

There are two ways to earn respect.

You demand it. Or you show up and hustle.

I’m guessing it was a little bit of both in this case.

At 22, Richelle bought her first home and had established herself against all odds.

She was thriving in a male dominant industry that didn’t exactly throw out the welcome mat for her.

She challenged the stereotypes and the status quo and refused to let people put her in a box. She did her way, on her terms, and the world was her oyster.

As the calendar turned to another page, the 5-year itch set in.

She needed a new challenge and new scenery.

She listed her house, and it sold quickly. Maybe a little too quick.

She thought to herself, “That seemed pretty easy, maybe I’ll give real estate a try.”

And just like that, she came to another fork in the road. You guessed it. She grabbed it.

Throughout her career, Richelle has found herself in industries that have been people focused.

Waiting tables at Annie’s Restaurant.

Selling Edwin’s at Jean Experts.

Scheduling service appointments on excavators.

There are few sectors more personal than real estate.

It took her 6 months to close her first deal. Marketing herself in a new business was a learning curve, but her biggest asset was herself. She beat the streets.

Resilience has always been her life’s philosophy.

Fortunately, she had some experienced professionals to help guide the way. People like Pam Doak and Wendy Hallihan, who also had to clear their own path, took Richelle under their wings and encouraged her to keep forging ahead.

She watched and she listened, and she is grateful for them every day.

Because it paid off and she found her groove. She was Movin’ Up.

Richelle became successful enough that it was time to reward herself.

She treated herself, not with a new car, or shiny jewelry, but to a $1500 corduroy business suit that she bought at the Towne Shoppe in downtown Fredericton.

That wasn’t enough, so she bought herself a red leather business suit.

Both of which she still has.

Maybe they are a bit outdated, but 80’s fashion is making a comeback.

And if there ever is a Fredericton real estate Hall of Fame, one day, they may be hanging in the rafters.

Burnout, and New Horizons, but there is no place like home

The life of a real estate agent has its pros and cons.

On the one hand, you have the freedom to set your own schedule.

It’s not 9 to 5 and you don’t have anyone to tell you when you can go for lunch.

On the other hand, you are basically on call 24/7.

Your livelihood depends on it.

Weekends off? No, there is an open house.

Vacations? Not if someone has an offer in on a split entry and there are multiple offers.

After years of going full out, burnout started to catch up to her.

And the notorious 5-year benchmark was drawing near.

By chance, she was at a real estate conference in Toronto, and she met a real estate coach, Giuditta Constanza that she credits for giving her new perspective and turning her life around.

Also, by chance, Giuditta’s husband owned a framing company that was based in Toronto, and they needed a Regional Manager.

Richelle did what she always does when she comes to a fork on the road.

She grabbed it.

She packed up her things and headed to The Big Smoke.

Richelle imagined herself on the road, meeting new people, seeing new places, and expanding her horizons.

Instead, she found herself trapped in a cubicle and living in a condo.

Through the window, she could see the grocery store, and could almost reach out and grab it, but the thought of having to take an hour to get there was disheartening.

The adjustment hit hard.

She was just another person walking the streets in a city with unfamiliar faces.

Back home in Fredericton, she had worked hard to build her brand.

Her name and face were on signs and on buses.

Sure, the opportunities in Toronto were unlimited. But it wasn’t home.

It was time to come back to Fredericton.

Unapologetic Hillbilly

Conforming to stereotypes in business and in life is painfully boring.

Richelle has never had any interest in being put in a box.

Be authentic.

Be yourself.

Don’t apologize for either.

What you see is what you get.

Turquoise streaks that run through a thick main of long black hair.

Tattoos and a nose ring.

The confidence to walk into a room and knowing that no one in there is going to take it away from her.

She is as comfortable in that boardroom as she is sitting around the campfire with her best friend, Tanya.

She calls Richelle “Puffy”, because of the big hair. Richelle in turns calls Tanya “Dippy”, because of her blond hair. Pretty self-explanatory.

For a woman who takes pride in living her life in a 5-year cycle, Tanya has been the one constant in Richelle’s life for 40 years.

They are polar opposites. Tanya is kind and patient: Richelle, bold and brash.

They snuck into bars underage, rocked out at concerts and got foot tattoos together to solidify their friendship.

Dippy’s tattoo says “You see all my light”

Puffy’s says, “You love all my dark”

She’s been the one steady thing in Richelle’s life that’s always been there for her and always will be. Because they are soulmates, and they only live 4 minutes away from each other.

Richelle is going to tell you what’s on your mind and look you dead straight in the eye while she’s doing it.

That’s why people trust her.

There is sincerity in the drawl in her voice that makes you feel comfortable. It makes you feel that you are talking to someone real.

Her street smarts will tell you that she will call out the BS and have your back at the same time.

Richelle reminds me of the first verse of the Pistol Annies song, Hell on Heals:

“I’m hell on heals,

Say what you will,

I done made the devil a deal,

He made me pretty,

He made me smart,

And I’m gonna break me a million hearts,

I’m hell on heals; I’m coming for you.”

Richelle knows who she is and makes no apologies.

I grew up on a house on top of a slate rock ledge overlooking the Miramichi River, in a place called Storeytown.

On certain July or August nights, there is one spot on the deck that may be the most perfect place in the world.

If you place your chair to look upriver, the reflection of the sun off the river is both magical and blinding at the same time. The colours in the sky bleed together and look like they had been casually mixed by an artist that knew what they were doing. The clouds align in a perfectly imperfect way, fully understanding the assignment.

The cool breeze blowing up from the river below is just strong enough to keep you comfortable, and just strong enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

If you sit there long enough and listen, you’ll hear it.

To the locals, the sound doesn’t even register, but to outsiders, it might keep you up at night wondering what made that noise.

That would be the Atlantic Salmon showing off, breaching and coming back down with a thunderous splash.

It is their way of saying, “This is our river. We are still here. If you look after her, she will look after you.”

The Miramichi is a “she”.

Strong and fierce.

Full of surprises, and at times, unpredictable.

Not to be taken lightly.

And of course, she is beautiful inside and out.

Bear with me a minute; you’ll see where I am going with this.

If you are ever lucky enough to sit in that euphoric spot on that deck, and look upriver on the other side. You’ll see the Ernie Storey house. Beside it, you will see a small campground. We call it the Ernie Storey campground.

It is a fact that baseball great, war hero, and avid fisherman, Ted Williams had owned at one time what was the Ernie Storey house.

It has long been rumored that Marilyn Monroe and Tom Sellick stayed there. Never officially confirmed or denied, which in Miramichi speak, means they absolutely did.

We don’t let facts get in the way of a perfectly good story.

If Marilyn Monroe and Tom Sellick did indeed visit our river, the locals valued their privacy as much as they valued their own. We want them to enjoy “her” as much as we do. With no interruptions.

No matter who the owner of the campground is, it’ been called Ernie Storey’s Campground. The name has never changed.

Fenton Doak was one of the owners of the campground.

Fenton’s daughter is Pam Doak.

If you are wondering why this story started on a deck, mixed in some local folklore, and painted a picture of a scene in a Catherine Karnes-Munn painting, here’s why.

Because some of the best stories about people stem from the places and people that helped shape them,

Pam, like the Miramichi, is strong and fierce.

Full of surprises, and at times, has taken an unpredictable path.

Not to be taken lightly.

And beautiful, inside and out.

Where it started

To begin to tell Pam’s story, I must start with her father Fenton to give it a little context.

Mr. Doak grew up in a time when large families were the norm.

Sadly, another norm that you hear about, especially during that time, is that his father died, leaving behind a widow and a house full of children.

Fenton stepped up, dropped out of school, became the patriarch, and put food on the table and kept the roof over the family’s head.

He delivered telegrams by bicycle with Lorne Seely and worked as a bellhop at the York Hotel.

Eventually, he started building something.

He took ownership of a Gulf Service Station on Brookside Drive and started A & F Distributors.

Not bad for a kid that had to grow up overnight.

It’s a true rag to riches story. I wish he were still around so I could tell it from his perspective.

Fenton was head strong to say the least, and that trait is genetic.

Pam went to work for her dad at a young age and learned the art of customer service pumping gas and running the cash register, and being sure to do it right, or run the risk of hearing about it.

As she got older, Pam started running with the wolves.

She was forming her own opinions and thought she had life figured out.

She did not, and her father noticed and intervened.

The genetic trait they both shared reached a boiling point, and they had words.

At 14 years of age, Pam left home. She left her job at the Gulf Station and left school.

She said she was “kind of homeless”; she couch surfed, stayed with friends, and always managed to find a place to lay her head.

There was a Lebanese Church in Downtown Fredericton, that still stands, and left the basement window unlocked, and Pam knew about it. She would crawl through the window, use the facilities to wash up, and leave it better than she found it.

Which tells you something very important about Pam.

Even at her lowest, there was a standard.

I’m fairly certain that the statute of limitation has since expired.

But if Fredericton’s finest shows up at Pam’s door someday, I’m sure she will tackle it head on.

Ambition meets purpose

Pam and I sat down for a coffee and a chat at The Landing in Fredericton. We both agreed that it was one of our favourite places in Fredericton.

As we started our conversation, which just flowed naturally, she quoted David Suzuki, and how he has said capitalism is a fundamentally flawed system,

We both stopped talking for a few seconds and looked at each other. I didn’t even have to say a word, she just said, “I know.”

Pam built her professional career inside that very system. She is proof that you can do some good from inside that very system and be personally successful. Her real estate career is only part of her identity, but it has given her options to do other things and help other people.

She was working at Covey’s Stationary on Carlton Street in downtown Fredericton that was frequented by realtors. Using her customer service training she crafted at the Gulf station on Brookside Drive, she became friends with them.

They suggested she try her hand at real estate.

She took the realtors exam and passed.

But there were two obstacles she still had to overcome before she could be officially licensed to sell homes.

The New Brunswick Real Estate Board requires you to have a high school diploma. Pam did not have one. So, she spent 2 weeks at UNB obtaining her GED.

That’s one obstacle that got crossed off the list.

The second one was tougher, and she had to swallow a bit of pride.

She asked her father to pay for her license.

He extended his hand, and said, “I might as well burn this cheque.”

With a lump in her throat, she took it and made the payment.

The stakes were now personal.

It was time to prove Daddy wrong.

More importantly, it was about proving something to herself.

Struggle to stability

Blazing your trail in the real estate industry is hard on a good day.

Now try it as an 18-year-old woman trying to break down the walls in what was then a male dominated business.

Pam was frustrated because no one took her seriously.

She figured it out obviously, but she didn’t do it alone.

There we some strong women that took her under their wings and showed her the ropes.

She credits Betty Fitzpatrick. Carol Hovey Smith, and Noreen Barwise for helping to show her the ropes.

Women who had been there and did it all. And knew when to give advice, and when to just let her learn the hard way.

They saw the potential before Pam even saw it herself. The best mentors do.

She powered through and eventually did well enough to buy her first house on Hemlock Avenue.

Sigh of relief. That was the foundation to build her career on, and the confidence booster she needed to proceed.

Her portfolio grew to the point that she could start investing in real estate herself.

A property became available on Irvine Street. Again, she went to her father for a loan.

He accepted the offer, with the caveat that it be paid back with 10% interest.

Pam’s mom still has the logbook of when the payments were made. You don’t throw keepsakes like that away.

She paid it back, in full, and she still owns the property today.

It is a non-subsidized, low-income housing property. She calls it her safety net, but it isn’t just that for her. It provides safe, livable, and affordable housing for people that need it most.

Helping people get into affordable housing is a passion project for Pam today. She has used her connections throughout the city to see real progress happen before her eyes.

She has developed a strong working relationship and friendship with Warren Maddox, Executive Director of Fredericton Homeless Shelters Inc. When Pam talks about their friendship, you can feel the passion radiate from her voice, because she knows, together, we can make a difference.

Full Throttle

Pam’s career took off.

She put in the hours and earned her way to the top of the industry in Fredericton. The same industry that once didn’t take her seriously.

She rewarded herself with a Harley Davidson. She drove it everywhere.

Her marketing messaging was intentional. She knows the market and what to do in the highs and lows.

Pam pays attention to the details. She picks up the subtle thing that others have missed.

The small stuff. The subtle cues. The “something feels off, but I can’t quite place it” moments.

That’s her edge.

Dependable. Steady. Grounded.

The kind of person you want in your corner when things get chaotic. Which, in real estate, is basically always.

While everyone else is spinning, she is calm, focused, and reassuring.

The voice that says, “We’ve got this,” and actually means it.

Oddly enough, the traits listed above are the same traits that a person that prefers French Vanilla ice cream over all other flavors have.

Coincidentally, that’s Pam’s favourite!

Pam’s hard work has led to opportunities. Not just in business, but in her personal life.

I asked her about her recent voyage with her sister and a group of friends to Africa.

She told me about what she witnessed, and you could notice the pause and catch in her voice, and her eyes were deciding whether to well up or not.

It wasn’t just the lions, giraffes, and elephants that she saw in their natural habitat that affected her.

It was the people.

Pam and her friends witnessed first-hand how tribes in a small village in Tanzania, near the Serengeti, and how they would work together to survive using the barter system. It seemed almost foreign, but refreshing to someone who is used to deals that depend on contract signings and closing dates.

Different worlds, same goals.

She talked about watching the elephants feed off the tops of the trees, while breaking branches off and letting them fall to the ground so the smaller animals could feed.

It’s a primitive place for sure, but lessons to be learned there stuck with her and always will.

I asked her about her mother, Patsy, and she half chuckled. She’s 87 years old and goes to the YMCA at least 3 days a week. She’s in a bowling league and has managed to keep it going for years!

Showing up. Doing the work. Taking care of people. Lessons from her mom that Pam carries with her every day.

You don’t need a family tree to connect the dots.

I guess Pam got her ambition and hardheaded genetic trait from both sides of the family.

I asked Pam what her mantra was.

No hesitation: The Golden Rule.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Simple. Clear. Effective, and classic.

Turns out it works in real estate, and pretty much everywhere else.

The day we met to have a chat was just a few days after Pam made a social media post that the billboard on Union Street that has had her picture on it for years, was coming down.

It has become part of her identity as much as it has become part of the landscape on the city’s Northside.

She admits that the billboard coming down hit her harder than she thought it would. Every time she drove by it, she said it felt like a warm hug.

She’s already thinking about what is coming next. I’m sure it will have an impact.

I don’t know if it was fate or coincidence that she made that post just days before we met to chat about her story, but the message on the billboard in the picture was fitting for the day.

“If houses could talk, they would tell the best stories.”

It’s almost as if she were intentional about scheduling our meeting that day.

Pam has a knack for that.

My favourite cartoon when I was a kid was The Flintstones.

Before I even knew what school was, I would spend my days at my grandmother’s house when my parents went to work.

Life was good, and Nannie always had the best lunches ready for me in time for us to sit down and watch the Price is Right.

Those lunches were next level.

The highlight of the day was getting to watch what Fred and Barney were up to.

The Flintstones had a little bit of everything.

Work drama.

Family chaos.

Hobbies that sometimes get out of hand.

It may have crossed a few lines that some people would say were inappropriate by today’s standards.

It debuted in the 60’s. They were different times.

I doubt very much you’d see the lead in a children’s show star in a cigarette ad these days.

But they were innovative.

They built things to last.

They weren’t afraid to try new things.

They looked after their neighbours and friends.

They were part of the community of Bedrock.

They often disagreed with each other and fought tooth and nail, but at the end of each episode, they patched up their differences and had a gay old time.

See what I did there? I hope the theme song is stuck in your head now.

Fred was a jack of all trades.

Brontocrane operator for Slate Rock and Gravel.

Champion bowler.

Master poker player.

Proud member of the Loyal Order of the Water Buffaloes.

Family man and proud Bedrocker.

Which brings me to Lloyd Dutcher.

Now before you get carried away, I’m not calling Lloyd a caveman.

He’s far from it.

But he can do just about anything he sets his mind too.

He’s a carpenter, a developer, a history buff, an artist, and a proud Frederictonian.

And on May 11^th, he’s hoping to add City Councilor for Ward 7 in the Lincoln area to his resume.

Farm Boy Strong

Lloyd was born and raised on a farm in Maugerville.

I asked him what he did for fun as a kid, and his answer was “I worked on a farm in Maugerville.”

That’s it. That’s the answer.

No weeks away to summer camp. No screen time of days in front of the TV,

Just chores.

The farm was their livelihood, and like most families during that time, the extended family wasn’t far down the road. They all pitched in; they all had a role, and no one got to take a day off because they didn’t feel like it that day.

I’m sure there were days on the farm that Lloyd would’ve happily traded a few barrels of potatoes for just about anything else.

But his mother’s cooking was something that he wouldn’t have traded.

He said she could make a meal out of nothing, and make it taste good.

If they didn’t have any meat, she’d make potatoes and onion gravy, and that was their delicacy.

Farm life doesn’t run on the “I’ll do it tomorrow” mentality.

It runs on necessity.

And hard work.

He carries those values with him still. The early mornings and long days in the fields built muscles, work ethic and pride in your craftsmanship.

At the end of the day, the reward was an evening on the Saint John River, with a canoe and a paddle, enjoying everything that Mother Nature had to offer.

Just a big moon in the sky, the stars flickering on the water, and the coolness of the fresh air, and knowing that he would get to do it all again the next day.

A pretty good trade off, I must say.

Picking and lugging barrels of potatoes didn’t just build character; it built something else.

Brute strength.

It’s a different kind of strength that can’t be found in a gym. It’s the earned kind.

The strength he built on the farm led to an arm-wrestling championship in 1989.

No barbells or protein shakes.

Just pure grit and stubbornness.

That’s a recipe for success.

Jack of all trades

Lloyd is a red seal carpenter. And it doesn’t just stop there.

He was a wallet full of certification cards, including red seals as heavy equipment operator and interior systems mechanic.

While bigger construction companies were busy designing their logos, Lloyd’s strategy was simple. Make a budget, stick to it, and let his work speak for itself.

Do great work, and people will talk.

And they did.

Word of mouth advertising works. Showing up, doing great work and standing behind it works way better than boosting ads on social media.

He built his life and career on his reputation and professionalism.

He’s developed entire subdivisions in the Capital Region on his own dime.

The funding from the bank was always there if he needed it, but he never had to make that call.

He created a budget and stayed on it.

And he went to work.

Excavating, clearing the land, pouring the foundations, building the houses and the streets around them.

Here’s a wild idea, hear me out

In a city where we are crying for affordable housing, wouldn’t it make sense for there to be someone in the room how knows how to build things and stay on budget?

Ya think?

Today, Lloyd is a carpentry instructor with the carpenters union teaching pre-employment classes to the next generation of builders.

Because if you are going to learn how to swing a hammer, who better to teach you than a guy that spent his career and reputation on building things that last?

Some might think, carpenter, and think rough around the edges.

Put in 12 hours on a job site, come home, have supper, crack a beer and sit in the chair and turn on some Johnny Cash and let “Sunday Morning Coming Down” put you to sleep.

And I’m sure there are nights after a long day lining up rafters that Lloyd did just that.

Lloyd isn’t the typical guy you see dressed in a suit and wing tipped shoes who is seeking public office.

He’s as salt of the earth as you can get.

But as our conversation carried on, I saw a side I didn’t think I was going to see.

I saw someone who cared.

The kind of caring that stems from living in a place his whole life and knowing that it can do better.

He knows the city.

Not just the street names and which contractor built which subdivision.

He knows the people, the landmarks and the institutions that made Fredericton what it is.

And he doesn’t want to see them on the wrong end of the wrecking ball.

Right now, the city has some decisions to make.

Not someday, or after another study has been formed.

The time for kicking the can down the street has long passed, and the time for action is now.

Places like the Exhibition grounds and Christ Church Cathedral.

They are at the core of Fredericton’s identity.

Waiting too long to act leaves you with fewer options and inflates the price on the finishing end.

He’s not just thinking about history; he’s thinking about who will be footing the bill too.

We are living in a time like we have never seen before, and the average citizen is feeling the pinch.

There is no room for waste.

Fiscal responsibility must start at the grassroots level and be the example.

And municipal politics is as grassroots as it gets.

He’s passionate about the future of the New Brunswick Provincial Exhibition grounds and its future.

Lloyd’s thinking comes from his farm days.

That if you build it, you pay for it.

And if you want to keep it, you maintain it.

And if you lose it, you can’t get it back.

The next chapter of the exhibition grounds has yet to be written.

A compromise and a negotiated solution is a much more plausible best case scenario than a court battle on the taxpayer’s dime.

Honouring our history, while moving forward and counting dimes at the same time.

Lloyd knows they can all go hand in hand.

Adding Layers

Lloyd enjoys a night of poker with his buddies.

Training for his job at the carpenter’s unions takes place at the Carpenters International Training Center in Las Vegas.

I’m sure there are nights he can be found at the tables on The Strip.

He seems like he’s the “all in” type.

Because he is when he talks about his passion for the future of Fredericton.

Representing the people in Lincoln as their councilor for Ward 7 would be the honour of his life.

The people will be his number one priority.

Within the Ward 7 boundaries is the happiest place in Fredericton.

Dari-Delite. Another Fredericton institution.

It’s where bad days go to die.

Lloyd would go with a straight up vanilla cone.

But don’t think that makes him boring.

It’s anything but.

It tells me he’s dependable, friendly, and confident.

Here’s the thing about vanilla ice cream.

You can add layers to it.

Chocolate sauce.

Nuts.

A few sprinkles.

It can be full of surprises.

Lloyd has layers and is full of surprises.

As I was walking through his living room after our chat, I stopped.

On the walls hung some beautiful paintings that caught my eye enough to make me ask, “Who painted these?”

Lloyd did.

There was a painting of a cow in the barn.

Another showed the poker room with all of his buddies sitting at the table.

But the one that caught my eye the most was the painting hanging by the door as a tribute to our heroes in the Armed Forces.

Framed in curly maple, with the artist’s signature in the bottom corner: L. Dutcher.

Any Legion in the country would be proud to hang it on the wall.

Lloyd has layers.

Lots of them.

With Lloyd, there or no gimmicks or nonsense.

Just hard work and making good decisions.

The kind that would make Fred Flintstone slide down the dinosaur tail at the end of the day, punch out and head home to Wilma.

When I was a kid growing up in the 80’s, the Doaktown Arena was like Disneyland.

No roller coasters or teacups.

Just the smell of the dressing rooms and whatever they had frying in the canteen.

Walking into an old barn today and taking in those smells and feelings can transport me back to being any 8-year-old faster than any time machine could.

In the winter, it was our second home. Friday night skating followed by a high school hockey game, and then home to bed to be back for an 8 am practice on Saturday morning.

This was repeated every weekend from November when the ice went in, until March when our NHL dreams would have to wait another year when they took the ice out.

In the spring and summer months, the rink sat dormant and lonely, except for a couple occasions.

The Doaktown Fair.

And Grand Prix Wrestling.

Once a year, wrestlers that we would watch on TV every Saturday would roll into town in the Caprice Classics and half tons to put on a show for the locals.

To us kids, they were larger than life.

The Cuban Assassin, The Beast, Big Stephen Petitpas, and “No Class” Bobby Bass.

It’s debatable who was more drawn into what was happening in the ring, the kids or the adults.

It was a break from the summer heat in a barn that we all knew too well. For a few bucks, it brought something to our village that would be talked about for days after.

It was back when wrestling was real.

Grand Prix Wrestling has long been closed, and only the memories live on to those of us who got to watch it live.

Wrestlers and the promoters are on the ground and talk to the everyday blue-collar workers.

They become friends, know their stories, and hear their concerns.

They know what the issues are.

Others have tried to bring back local wrestling to promotions, with different degrees of success.

It’s not quite the same as Grand Prix, but I appreciate the effort.

Allan Hilchie gave it a go with the Mainstream Wrestling promotion, doing his part to keep the Maritime wrestling magic alive.

It was an underdog promotion, just trying to survive and bring joy to others.

Kind of like Allan, a self-proclaimed underdog, who is putting his name forward to be Ward 9’s City Council representative in Fredericton.

The Underdog

Allan grew up near the town of Oromocto, where his childhood could be described as a typical New Brunswick upbringing.

School.

Summers on the ball field.

Winters at the hockey rink.

Even at a young age, Allan had one thing figured out.

If he was going to be successful at whatever he chose he was going to take on, he was going to have to outwork everyone else.

Not everyone believed him.

Some teachers weren’t picking up what he was dropping down.

Coaches look past him, and teams overlooked him.

But work ethic trumps all.

He proved them wrong, made the AAA ranks on the ice and excelled on the diamond.

Don’t underestimate someone with a strong work ethic.

It doesn’t age well.

Not only did he graduate high school and go on to Saint Thomas and get a degree in Criminology and Sociology, he also was one of the goalies for the Saint Thomas Tommie’s Men’s hockey team.

Commitment. Hard work. Dedication.

He used the naysayer’s words as a motivation to succeed, and he proved them wrong.

Positive Mentors

Career opportunities took him north, to the City of Miramichi.

For further reference, I’ll be using the traditional names of Newcastle and Chatham in this story.

That’s the traditionalist in me that won’t let some of the old ways go.

The home of Lord Beaverbrook.

The Opera House.

The Irish Festival.

And perhaps most importantly on a hot summer day, Park’s Dairy Bar.

Because there is nothing like grabbing a couple scoops of your favourite treat after a hard day at the office and sitting on the riverbank of the beautiful Miramichi River and enjoying Mother Nature in her finest form.

It is euphoric.

I’m sure Allan knows what I am talking about. He would’ve sat on the riverbank and enjoyed a cone of Turtle Track ice cream.

Turtle Track ice cream tells me that he enjoys good company and would rather spend a night at a barbecue with friends than out dancing at the Ebb Tide.

It also tells me something else.

Patience.

To tackle a cone as complex as Turtle Track, you have to be strategic.

You have to precisely work your way around the layers on the outside first, to get to the prize in the middle.

It’s a pretty good snapshot of how Allan has lived his life.

Work hard.

Be patient.

Good things will happen.

Allan worked at the Miramichi Youth Center for over 20 years.

He was part of the team that focused on helping young people who have been in trouble with the law to get the help they need.

They were committed to helping to become successful members of society, by providing education, therapy, and other resources to help them turn their lives around.

The Center offers a client-centered approach, with built-in support systems led by positive reinforcement.

No yelling or writing people off.

Instead, build them up to believe in themselves.

Positive reinforcement is something Allan became familiar with on the ball field, thanks to two of his coaches and mentors, New Brunswick Baseball Hall of Famers, Rod Wilson Sr and Greg Morris.

They believed in encouragement.

They saw potential in Allan.

And they believed in him.

Greg Morris lived by the motto, “if better is possible, than good is not enough.”

They knew how to get the best out of people.

Allan was a softball guy. Player. Coach. The whole nine yards.

He says his favourite thing about living in Chatham was baseball.

The lore of Ironman Park in Chatham drew him in.

Baseball has a steep history in Chatham, and when the lights get turned on at the ballpark on St Thomas Street, people cross the river and venture up from the Bay to fill the stands.

You may think transitioning from softball to baseball would be easy.

It’s not. They are completely different games.

They told Allan he couldn’t do it.

They didn’t know him.

Not only did he work harder than everyone else to get a spot on the Ironman roster, but Allan also excelled.

He patrolled left field and was among the team leaders at the plate.

He led the New Brunswick Senior Baseball league in batting average, batting .419.

How did he do it?

Well, hard work and dedication.

And having coaches like Rod Sr and Greg that had his back and seen the potential in him.

Support and encouragement and having a couple legends believe in you is a great motivator.

Addressing the issue

It takes a special kind of person to work in the corrections field for as long as Allan has.

The kind of person who shows up every day to work not knowing that they could be walking in to.

We can watch all the true crime series we want on TV, and most of us would make recommendations about what should be done. But in reality, we’d be stopped in our tracks before we hit the workplace floor, not knowing what to say.

For 20 years, Allan worked in youth corrections, and it is not as simple as doing head counts and making sure the doors are locked.

These aren’t the hardened criminals that we hear about from Folsom or Alcatraz.

They are kids, going through things that people their age shouldn’t have too.

Addiction.

Neglect.

Abuse.

Some simply could have made the decision to make a right turn instead of turning left, and their story would be completely different.

A corrections officer’s hope is that their mentorship will help these kids turn on the light.

That’s the goal.

Unfortunately, in a job like that, there are times when you take it home with you.

The images weigh on them

They keep them up at night and haunt their dreams.

They are always in the back of their minds.

Eventually, after years of helping others with their trauma, Allan’s mind told him something.

He had to take a step away to take care of himself.

Not because he was weak, but because he was strong for so many years.

Many first responders and correctional workers know it all too well.

PTSD.

Allan found himself facing his own battle.

He spent so many years helping others find their way; he had to take some time so he could find his own.

The first step to fixing a mental health issue is accepting the fact that you have one.

Which sounds simple, but it’s not.

Especially for people who have dedicated their careers to being the strong one in the room.

During the time that Allan stepped away, he did something interesting.

Instead of not talking about what he was going through, he decided to start the conversation.

He started the Chat Club Podcast which talked about mental health issues.

You can have a listen here:

He said the first episode took 5 times to produce. Each time, the emotions took over, he had to stop and restart.

But he powered through like he always does.

There’s no place like home

Allan needed a reset, and that reset set was a move back home.

He took a position with Island View House, a halfway house that helps people reintegrate back into society.

He’s invested in his community, and the city, and knows it must do better.

Crime is on the rise, and drug use and addiction are on our streets, in our parks and in our neighbourhoods.

At times, it seems like no one in charge seems to care.

Which is why he is seeking a seat at the council table.

Not for the title.

For the work.

Because solving problems like addiction, crime, and community safety isn’t going to happen with one speech, one motion, or one election cycle.

It’s going to take patience.

Real work.

And probably a council that works harder than any council ever has.

Allan also understands something that most people seeking public office have trouble with.

His idea doesn’t have to be the one that they go with.

If someone else brings forward a solution that actually helps people?

Great.

That’s a win for the whole city.

Because real progress usually comes from working together to find the best solution, not to inflate the ego.

It’s about changing the way we approach problems.

Building people up instead of tearing them down.

Working together instead of shouting past each other.

If that philosophy sounds familiar, that’s because it’s basically Allan’s personal mantra.

I know how hard it is to leave the Miramichi.

Trust me.

My heart still belongs there.

Part of Allan’s does too.

But Fredericton is pretty lucky to have him back in the fold, swinging for the fences and bringing a philosophy to City Hall that would make Greg Morris proud:

If better is possible… then good is not enough.

Sometimes, I like to put things together that just shouldn’t go together.

And let the universe work it out.

The outcome is usually a negotiated solution, or a combination of something that turns out to be unexpectedly genius.

Like Cheez-Whiz on old-fashioned donuts.

Salty. Sweet. Delicious.

Try it. You won’t be disappointed.

I think giving toddlers a set of drums is the perfect birthday or Christmas gift.

You never know, they could win a Grammy Award someday, and they could thank me for being the brave visionary that got them started.

And it’s just a good old-fashioned comedy.

When I think about how my perfect version of the House of Commons or City Council Chamber would look, I see a mix of people sitting at the table who normally wouldn’t be in the same room together debating and laying out policy.

Businesspeople.

Lawyers.

Nurses.

Engineers.

Millworkers

The independent grocery store owner.

Good decisions in government don’t come from everyone agreeing politely.

It comes from different perspectives, clashing enough to create something better.

I think I’d like to give a seat to a plumber at the decision-making table too.

They’ve dealt with shit.

Each day, they are in people’s houses, solving problems with their pipes, and listening to their concerns about everyday life.

Plumbing has no boundaries. One minute the plumber is in a million-dollar mansion; the next, they are in a single-family bungalow.

And the plumber is a therapist.

Which brings me to Jared Hill.

Jared is running for the Devon area seat on Fredericton’s City Council in Ward 4.

He’s a plumber.

Which means he understands how things are built.

He understands people.

And he understands that sometimes the problems aren’t that complicated; they just need the right fitting.

Cheez-Whiz on donuts.

3-year-olds and a drum kit.

Jared Hill and City Hall.

Some might think that none of these things should go together.

I beg to differ.

A little bit of everything.

Jared’s mom made sure he wasn’t going to go stale.

He was going to be well rounded.

Growing up in Fulton Heights, the opportunities presented to him were endless.

Hockey, baseball, rugby, all occupied his time and taught him the value of teamwork, and how to be a leader.

His mother didn’t want Jared to be a one-dimensional sports minded kid.

Piano lessons were not an optional activity.

They were mandatory.

Because of the piano, he’s mastered other musical instruments too.

And he credits his mother’s persistence at being well rounded as a kid to being well rounded as an adult.

In school, he joined all the clubs.

The ones that he naturally gravitated to.

The ones he tolerated.

The ones where he stuck out like a sore thumb in, but they taught him something.

A little bit of everything.

That explains why his favourite ice cream is Neapolitan.

Not just vanilla. Or Chocolate. Or Strawberry.

Enjoy the pleasures of everything that is presented in the bowl in front of you.

The best results don’t come from sticking to one flavour.

They come from mixing them up.

That’s where opportunities come from.

Fate.

Hockey was his true passion, and he excelled.

He made his way through the AAA ranks in Fredericton.

Back when the sport was affordable, making ice times available to kids was a priority.

Now he was driving his son to Harvey for practice because there is no ice time available to them in the city.

We talk about getting kids off their phones and screens.

More human interaction.

More team building.

Fresh air and exercise.

When kids are at the rink, at music class or art class, they are not on their screens.

They’re building friendships.

Understanding what commitment is.

Becoming our future leaders.

And they are less likely to get in trouble.

Consultants can write and submit all the reports they want to council, but unless we make the resources and infrastructure more accessible to our youth, we are failing them.

Hockey gave Jared an outlet and opportunities.

An outlet to burn energy and live out a dream.

The opportunity to see new places, learn what being a teammate is, and the leadership skills that would benefit him for the rest of his life.

He rode buses throughout the Maritimes, to towns that he never heard of. Those experiences taught him lessons that can’t be measured on a stat sheet.

Then his junior career ended, and it was off to the notorious Quebec Senior League to see what was next.

If you have heard any stories about that league, you’ll know that having a dentist on speed dial is a must. You don’t play there if you’re not tough.

A broken hand, and maybe a little fate, made Jared realize that maybe his dream of a career on the ice was over, and he headed back home to Fredericton.

He was offered an apprenticeship as a plumber, and worked his way to a Red Seal, working throughout the country as travelling tradespeople do.

Suitcase in one hand, plane ticket in the other.

But he knew his heart belonged to home in Fredericton.

He became a car salesman at Jim Gilbert’s Wheels and Deals.

It takes being a people person to excel and be successful at vehicle sales, and he was.

But something just didn’t feel right.

He was sitting in his office one day, contemplating what his next move was, and Mr. Gilbert, who he referred to as a second father, came in and sat down.

Jim didn’t need to give Jared a pump-up speech. He could see exactly what Jared was thinking by the look on his face.

“Go do what you want to do” he told him and gave him a hug, as the huggable car dealer would do.

That’s not a boss trying to get rid of a disgruntled employee. That’s a mentor seeing potential in someone beyond the sales floor.

Jared packed up his office, loaded in his car, and as he was about to make the turn out of the lot, his phone rang.

A buddy he hadn’t heard from in a while.

“Did you quit that sales job yet? I have a plumbing job and I need someone ASAP.”

The universe has a funny way of aligning at the exact moment when someone really needs it.

But you have to have the courage to move.

Sometimes you just need to turn the key in the ignition.

Faith.

Since fate helped Jared decide his next move, he thrived.

He thrived enough to be able to start his own plumbing company and build the life he wanted right here in his hometown.

And then the thing that he wrestled with his whole life caught up to him.

Depression.

Not the Blue Jays lost the World Series in Game 7 of depression.

The real kind.

The heavy kind.

He didn’t have to sugar coat it. He called it what it was.

The most refreshing part of our conversation wasn’t hockey stories or business success.

It was two grown men sitting at a table at Mama’s Pub, talking about their struggles with anxiety and depression like we were talking about last night’s game.

No egos.

Just honesty.

If elected to City Council in May, Jared said addressing the mental health crisis in this city is his number one priority.

It is not just in one neighbourhood, or confined to one demographic. It’s everywhere.

It’s in our schools.

In our workplaces.

Around the supper table.

I asked Jared how he copes with his depression, and what he does to overcome it to get through everyday life.

First, he stays busy.

Running a company and crew that could be needed at any time keeps him on his toes. Responsibility fuels progression.

Second, he invests his time being there for his kids.

One minute he’ll be in Saint John coaching his son at the hockey rink. When the final buzzer sounds, he’ll hop in his truck and drive two hours to be there to cheer on his daughter at her basketball game. And then, it’s back in his truck for the 2-hour drive back to Saint John to coach his son again.

It’s about showing up and being there for them, no matter the cost.

Jared said there is a third thing he turns to when he feels like depression is coming on.

The Bible.

Honestly, I didn’t expect that.

Jared’s faith has kept him grounded, and certain verses provide reminders that pull him back to the center and help him reset.

He is open about his faith and believing in God.

And he’s not preachy about it.

It is his own personal relationship that keeps him grounded.

I have struggled with religion my whole life.

I want to Believe I’m just not there yet.

I respect conviction when I see it. Especially when the person who is talking about it shows humility.

As we sat there and talked, I realized something.

Strength isn’t pretending everything is OK.

Strength is admitting you are not OK and working to make it better.

Talking to Jared may have brought me a little closer to believing.

His Own Kind of Hat.

Spring is around the corner, and the maple syrup is about to run.

You won’t find Jared at the rink.

He’ll be at Loyalist Field and the Clubhouse with mud on his cleats and bandages in all the right places.

He is Captain of the Men’s B squad rugby team and occasionally joins the A team to show them how it’s done.

He’s a fixture in the Clubhouse and is a coach for the youth programs with the Loyalist family and is a coach for middle school rugby.

His dream is to be able to keep his body intact long enough to be able to play at least one game alongside his kids.

How’s that for dreaming big?

He wants Fredericton to be an example city. The kind of town that others look to, to see what we are doing right.

Investing in our infrastructure and sprucing it up to make it more appealing is a priority. It’s a necessity to attract and encourage people to come here and stay and invest in the people and businesses.

It’s about giving families and their kids options from all sectors.

Sports. Arts. Culture.

Community.

It’s about having resources that allow our youth to step out of their box and find their niche.

It’s about being well rounded and trying new things.

Maybe it’s a sport.

Maybe it’s music and theater.

Maybe it’s a guitar or a paintbrush.

Those are the values Jared wants to pass on to the next generation, just the way his mom passed them on to him.

Jared is outspoken and not shy to share his opinion.

He doesn’t sand them down to make it more comfortable.

But he’s honest with himself, and with you.

That’s leadership.

As I was driving home after we left Mama’s Pub, an old country song popped into my head.

It was the Merle Haggard tune, “My Own Kind of Hat.”

Anytime I can quote The Hag, you’d better believe I’m going to.

“Cowboys and outlaws,
Right guys and Southpaws,
Good dogs and all kinds of cats,
Dirt roads and white lines,
And all kinds of stop signs,
I stand right here where I’m at,
‘Cause I wear my own kind of hat.”

Name me a more Jared Hill song than that?

I don’t know why that song came to me at that moment.

Maybe it was fate.

Could’ve been faith.

Maybe there is a high power looking over us and telling us when to turn the key in the ignition.

You just must believe in yourself.

I learned a lot from talking to Jared.

He wears his own kind of hat.

It was just a few years ago that I was sitting on my deck, and I got an anxious feeling.

We had just moved to our new house, in a great neighborhood.

My job afforded me a flexible schedule, so I was home when the school bus pulled up to the end of the street, and I gathered my daughter up and walked her home.

She was bouncing on the trampoline, and I thought about how lucky I was that I got to spend so much time with her. More than most dads. These are days I’d never get back.

Then it hit me, these days are also numbered.

Eventually, she is going to get older, more independent, and not going to spend as much time with her dad.

And that meant I was going to have time on my hands.

And that was going to be a problem.

Because an idle Bobby is not good for anyone.

Just ask my wife.

When I get bored, I default to my natural hobby, annoying people.

I’m the best at it. Elite level.

So, to save my marriage, I started exploring other hobbies to occupy my free time.

I do some woodworking because it allows me to escape and focus on the task at hand.

I bake because, well, I like to eat.

And here is a straight up fact. I bake the best carrot cake ever. True story.

I’ve taken painting classes, learned to carve soapstone, and volunteered at different places. I don’t like to get too comfortable, and often, I find myself adding things to my plate.

I can’t take credit for that last line.

Colin Ebbett said it to me when we met for a chat at The Happy Baker on Main Street.

I wrote it down and told him point blank that I was going to use it.

I never thought that I would be quoting a millennial, but here I am running it back, admitting my mistake.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have been critical of that generation.

A skeptic you could say.

Then I spent some time with Colin, and my view shifted.

It gave me an unexpected feeling of hope.

Since announcing that he would be running for a seat on City Council for Ward 3 in the Nashwaaksis area, he has knocked on 500 doors. There are 1600 homes in the area, and he says he is going to knock on each door.

I believe him.

I learned my lesson. Maybe I shouldn’t judge people so quickly.

Or I should just judge them solely on their favourite ice cream of choice.

Colin’s is Cookie Dough.

Totally millennial.

But after researching what cookie dough ice cream says about what he is made of, it all made sense.

It tells me he’s loyal and committed.

Quietly confident, and people oriented.

Seems to me that those are some good qualities to have when you are selling yourself at people’s doorsteps.

Understanding the issues

Colin’s roots sprouted in the blue-collar neighborhood of Barker’s Point.

It’s where he roamed the neighborhood with friends and explored the shores of the Nashwaak.

He grew up playing hockey and baseball, and he credits playing those sports with building lifelong skills that have benefitted him throughout his life.

They taught him how to show up.

How to be part of something bigger than yourself.

Discipline, mentorship, and structure.

All valuable skills to have as he graduated from Leo Hayes High School and went on to UNB to study Geological Engineering and entrepreneurship.

He started working for a start-up company, Inversa Systems, as an engineer, and planted his own roots.

The draw of bigger pay cheques in the west, or adventures south of the border could have easily taken Colin away; he decided to stay put.

Fredericton gave him every tool that he needed to successfully start his life’s journey. He could be everything that he wanted to be, right here in his hometown.

He needed Fredericton and as it turns out, Fredericton needs people like Colin too.

We who live here have all experienced the Fredericton summer.

I’m not talking about beach days at Kilarney Lake, an evening stroll across the walking bridge or a stop by one of our breweries to grab a cold one.

I’m talking about the construction season.

I don’t mean to bring back the memories of traffic delays, people dodging the line in traffic, or the inevitable Friday afternoon accident on the Westmorland Street bridge.

Sorry if I triggered your PTSD.

The biggest expense for any municipality is building and maintaining critical infrastructure.

Our waterlines need updated and if dodging potholes was an Olympic event, we’d be run away favorites for the gold medal.

It could be an event in both the summer and winter Olympics.

My frustration isn’t just with city hall. It’s also with the provincial government.

Let me explain.

There’s a ramp from the Royal Road that leads you to the highway heading towards Douglas.

For at least the last 5 years, there has been a pothole in the middle of said ramp.

It’s been patched.

And patched again.

Sometimes they even put an orange pylon in it to alert the drivers about the hazard.

Very sweet of them.

Finally, I reached out to the current councilor and MLA, expressing my frustrations.

They did get back to me though; I’ll give them credit for that.

Their explanation was that because the city maintains that part of the road in the winter, and the province maintains it in the summer, the other is responsible for the cost of repairing it correctly.

Tell me how that makes any sense.

Leadership isn’t about laying blame elsewhere for an issue you don’t want or know how to deal with.

Leadership is going to the source, understanding the issue and what it takes to get it fixed and getting the right people in the room to make sure it happens.

I’m sure there are other issues just like I described in the city, and I’m sure there are taxpayers as frustrated as me about much more.

Perhaps a new city council, with people like Colin around the table, who understand the issues and the processes needed to build and maintain the projects and infrastructure in town is exactly what we need.

Colin is someone who can sniff out the flaws and cut the red tape that holds up projects or leads people to invest elsewhere, because the process of getting things done in this city is just too painful.

If by chance you see election lawn signs of the current councilor and MLA standing in the said pothole the next time the writ is dropped, I didn’t do it.

Empathy matters, but so does action

Colin understands that ideas can often get lost in the talk about planning and policy.

If we want people to come here, and see everything that the city has to offer, we have to continue to make it more attractive.

And by that, I mean a livable kind of attractive.

That means reasonable tax rates so people can buy or build a home and be able to maintain the way of life they have worked for.

It means having services that are accessible and affordable.

It means having a vibrant downtown and neighborhoods and parks where families and out of towners can roam freely and explore everything that the city has to offer.

We all know the deal; we’ve all experienced what is happening downtown, and on our trails and in our parks.

It’s not pretty, and it keeps people away.

I’m not saying the people in charge of making plans and implementing the policy don’t care.

I believe they do.

As the crisis drags on, the goodwill starts to fade.

Empathy wears thin. Patience runs out, and frustration turns into anger.

We are all affected. There is no six degrees of separation here.

It’s more like one or two degrees.

Every one of us has watched as a loved one or a friend has battled the mental health, drug, and homelessness demons.

Colin included.

There is no easy fix. But maybe it’s time we try something different so everyone’s quality of life can be better, and we can enjoy everything that Fredericton has to offer together, without having to worry about what’s around the next corner.

A good kind of tired

Colin knows that if he’s elected in May, there will be a learning curve—but he adapts fast.
A new council, with dynamic new people around the table, will be refreshing.

He looks forward to embracing the new processes, listening to new ideas, and working together with those who have worked hard, like him, to earn the trust of the taxpayer.

He says he is grateful and humbled by the reception he has met with when people open their doors to him.

Their concerns are his concerns, and as he puts it, he wants to work to “Lean into the tough issues.” When it comes to municipal responsibilities.

Colin is aware that taking time away from the worries of everyday life is essential as well.

Find a place to escape the realities of life and reflect on the task at hand with the people he loves.

Like sitting in a blind — the peace and quiet of being alone in nature, the still water at sunrise, learning to call in ducks — it’s a kind of calm you can’t find anywhere else.

Or planning a 10-day snowmobile trip through Northern Quebec with his Dad and friends will be an experience that he’ll cherish and remember for the rest of his life.

They are the things that make all the hard work worth it.

Something else he said stuck with me as we were in the Happy Baker parking lot, walking towards our cars:

“It will be a privilege to be tired at the end of the day for the work I put in.”

Thoughtful.

Respectful.

Curious, open to new ideas and ready to do the work.

Exactly what it takes to move Fredericton forward.

If he keeps it up, he’ll be adding city councilor to his plate.

I wish I had a dollar for every time this happened to me.

I’d introduce myself to someone for the first time, and their first question would be,

“Oh, are you Mark’s brother?”

This is often a moment that is met with a short pause as I assess the situation.

Not because I’m confused or offended by the question.

I’m his proud big brother.

When asked that question, my mind now automatically asks these two questions:

Did he recently debate this person on a Facebook post at 3:47 in the morning?

Did they used to play hockey against him, and were they the victim of his relentless badgering on the ice?

He’s brutally honest, and has no shame in sticking to his guns, especially when he knows his sharp wit is getting under the other person’s skin.

I always say yes that we’re brothers. I can’t deny it.

I admire his drive, passion, his entrepreneurial spirit, and the way he easily connects with people.

They are skills that come naturally and have served him well throughout his life.

He honed his service skills in the early 2000’s while waiting tables at the Hilltop Pub, as it was known back then.

It was there that he learned from the best there was in the service industry and found out that customer service and relationship building would be a valuable tool for him to use down the road later in life.

I was a regular at the Hilltop back then.

Mark wasn’t always my waiter.

I wish he had of been; I wouldn’t have felt obliged to tip so generously.

I’m a creature of habit. My order was always the biggest steak on the menu, mushrooms, onions, and a baked potato with all the fixin’s.

When I was watching my waistline, I’d skip the potato and get salad.

Whatever I had to tell myself to sleep at night.

Not often did I order dessert.

But if I did, it was probably just ice cream.

If my waitress was Stacey Collett, who was also waiting tables at the Hilltop at that time, she would have suggested her favourite ice cream, Heavenly Hash.

And I would have tipped her well, because my ice cream personality analysis would have told me that:

She was complex.

Seeking comfort for herself and for others.

A little chaotic, in a good way.

Absolutely not boring.

I met Stacey for a coffee at Picaroon’s Roundhouse, and before I sat down and thought about how to approach the conversation, she leaned in and said:

“I want to rip off the band aid and find the solutions.”

Alrighty then. Guess we’re gonna get right at it.

Take the puck off the half wall, throw it in the mixer, and try to beat it in the net and see what happens.

I’ll try to keep up.

You could feel the energy immediately.

The kind of energy that doesn’t ask for permission. She doesn’t spend time thinking about the problem, because she is too busy looking in the toolbox for the right tool to fix it.

Some people want to spend too much time talking about the problems and that’s time wasted. The real solution is diving off the pier and getting the work done with no apologies.

Stacey always has her floaties on just in case.

To her, it’s about not stopping, juggling multiple things at once. It’s about keeping the momentum going and thinking down the road about what is next.

She doesn’t just talk about making plans; she creates them in detail, and hand delivers them.

Within minutes, you could tell her words weren’t performative; they were sincere.

She has only just announced that she would be running for Fredericton City Council for Ward 12, in the city’s Silverwood/Garden Creek area.

But she is already doing the work.

Something tells me it’s kind of her thing.

I hadn’t even taken my first sip of coffee yet, and I had to flip to a new page on my notepad.

Creating her own metaphor

She told me about one goal she had as a kid.

To ride her bike hands free.

She would take her bike to the top of the hill, take a deep breath, then push off.

Take one hand off first.

Then a couple fingers off the other.

Eventually a full release.

We all know how that goes, though.

Bumps, bruises, skinned knees and a faceplant into the neighbors rose bush.

She dusted herself off, removed any thorns from the roses, and drug the bike back to the top of the hill to try again.

And again.

And again.

Until eventually she flew down the hill and past the rose bush with both hands in the air and her hair blowing in the breeze.

What she didn’t realize at the time was that she was building her own metaphor.

Trying to find balance on that bicycle wasn’t just a onetime dream.

It was how she was going to live her life.

Plan. Execute. Repeat.

She is a proud class of ‘93 alumni from FHS and went on to earn an Arts degree at university.

For most, that would be enough to start building the foundation for the life they wanted to live.

Not for Stacey though.

She paid her way through school by working at the Hilltop and slinging drinks at the back bar at Sweetwaters.

Yes, Sweetwaters. There’s a little bit of nostalgia for you. It was back when downtown Fredericton had a nightlife, and you felt safe walking to the food truck after the last call.

Thinking back, I probably paid a few of Stacey’s power bills in tips in those days.

You’re welcome, Stacey.

She decided one degree wasn’t enough, so she enrolled in the Business Administration program at UNB.

And she raised her daughter.

And bought a house with all the bills and other things that come along with home ownership.

She graduated from UNB with her second degree and paid off her mortgage in the same month.

Something tells me she had it planned that way.

Think about what you just read.

When someone says something can’t be done, use Stacey as an example that it can be done.

It just takes a meticulously detailed plan, and the fortitude to see it through.

If you are wondering what this city is in need of right now, it’s probably that.

Keep on Smurfin’

Stacey is a mortgage associate, and it doesn’t just stop there.

She designs and offers free financial advice programs for her clients to use to help them balance their budget and figure out what they can afford.

She sees the potential in the neighborhood she lives in with her two dogs and her daughter.

Yes, she mentioned her dogs first.

I’m sure her daughter is used to it.

She is involved in the neighborhood watch program and ensures they are in regular contact. She has the President, Joe on speed dial.

If something suspicious or out of the ordinary is going down, she gets in her car and finds out what’s happening.

She dreams of starting a nonprofit housing community for seniors and is willing to put her money where her mouth is.

Her vision is for a cooperative where residents work hand in hand, developing the community and infrastructure and supporting each other in daily life.

I’m envisioning Smurfette with a set of blueprints in front of her in Smurf Village for some reason.

Or the Fredericton version of Seinfeld’s Del Boca Vista.

Just watch me

Stacey sees potential in Fredericton’s waterfront. Not just as a quick cash grab, but a draw for tourists that can be responsibly developed with a thoughtful plan and can leave a legacy for generations to come.

She loves hidden gems, like getting a greasy breakfast at Joe’s Diner on Gibson Street.

And not necessarily the Fredericton specific ones.

Stacey and her daughter have a spin wheel with all the towns in New Brunswick on it, and wherever the needle lands, that is their next adventure.

Coincidentally, she said the needle landed on Doaktown for their next adventure.

So, Stacey, I suggest a visit to the Atlantic Salmon Museum where you can check out the history and culture of the salmon fishing industry in the Miramichi.

A quick lunch at the Village Family Restaurant followed by a shopping stop at Living Out Loud and Doaktown Home Hardware, where the owners can hook you up with good deals to help you build Smurf Village.

Finish the day off by canoeing down our beautiful river from the Footbridge to Storeytown Cottages, where you can rent a cabin and relax by the campfire as the night sky sparkles on the shore.

How’s that for a plan? You’re rubbing off on me.

I ask her what led to her decision to let her name stand for council?

Helping people.

Having a plan and sticking to it.

Following through and listening.

Not taking no for an answer.

Don’t ask someone to do something that you wouldn’t do yourself.

She said her and her mother were always engaged in conversations about the issues of the day and shared ideas about what they could do to make things better.

When she wrote her Facebook post announcing that she was going to seek the council seat, she didn’t hit the post now button.

She asked her mother to.

Because, to Stacey, they’re in it together.

Stacey isn’t just on a mission; she’s going to knock on every door in Ward 12, and she is going to tell you how it’s going to get done.

Just a warning. Do not under any circumstance tell her she can’t do something.

Because then, she is going to do it twice.

The mission behind my next project is crystal clear.

I want to tell your story.

Well, maybe not your story per se, but somebody’s story.

Maybe it’s a person starting something new.

The community volunteer who deserves a deeper look.

The politician you thought you understood, until you didn’t.

I grew up in a political family, and it’s been part of my entire life.

I always wondered why the people were letting their name stand for office and why they’re putting their name out there to be ridiculed by half the population, when the public really don’t have a clue what goes on when the camera’s off.

What is the person you see on the six o’clock news really made of?

When I find something interesting that tweaks my mind, I dig in and search for everything I can find.

For the most part, I am looking to understand.

Who the person is. Why did this event happen? And what can be learned so it can or can’t happen again.

I read to learn and I read to escape.

I love all the Dan Brown novels and the way they weave through the history of symbols, religion, and organizations that like to keep their secrets.

I’ve read the Herb Curtis Brennan Siding Trilogy, The Americans are Coming, The Last Tasmanian, and The Lone Angler, more times than I can count.

They remind me of where I came from. Curtis paints a picture of the places and characters that make me easily relate to them.

Matthew McConaughey’s Greenlights and Poems and Prayers have inspired me to self-reflect, seek out beliefs, and to write things down and share.

My daughter inspired me to start sharing my journey, and she doesn’t even know it.

Her formative years were great, but in some ways not normal at all.

She was born 3 months early.

Her first year at school was cut short by COVID.

The following few years were met with masks, lockdowns, social distancing, and girl drama.

She was struggling, and we sought help.

Severe anxiety.

As we were sitting there going over the checklist with the doctor, listing off the things she was feeling, I sat there nodding and chiming in saying how I could relate, I was the same way as a kid.

Then the light went on.

Maybe, helping her meant helping me, too.

We’re still human. We still have bad days.

But now we have tools to help us deal with our vulnerabilities.

And the biggest realization is that being vulnerable isn’t a weakness; it’s an asset.

I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by world class storytellers and people who have the gift of turning a phrase and spinning a yarn.

I want to continue that tradition.

I want to weave the conversations I have into stories that help you understand why someone is the way they are and why they are doing what they are doing.

Without telling you what you have to think.

To be clear. I am not a journalist, and I have no desire to be one.

If you think your story needs to be told or know someone whose story you think is worthy of sharing, reach out and we can discuss the details.

It could be a candidate, a community leader, a local legend, or someone who is quietly doing the work that is going unnoticed.

I want to have a conversation.

No script. Just talk.

Let me tell your story

.

Campbellton, New Brunswick.

Home of the Salmon Festival, Sugarloaf Provincial Park, and the Campbellton Tigers.

It’s also the last place in New Brunswick to stop before you head over the Van Horne bridge to pick up cheaper beer in Quebec.

From 2004 until 2006 it is where I set up shop.

I was at that age. Old enough to think maybe it was time to start being serious about a career path, and young enough to have absolutely no idea how to do anything about it.

After a random by chance visit to a millwork and cabinet business in Fredericton, I found out about a woodworking program offered by The New Brunswick Community College in Campbellton.

I’d spent most of my teenage years in the shop with my grandfather, so the art of fine woodworking was ingrained in me, long before I ever thought about it being a career option.

Imagine, turning what you thought was only a hobby you grew up loving simply for the joy of it, into a real job.

My Grandfather was a small craft maker, known for his New Brunswick clocks. Not many houses along the Miramichi didn’t have one ticking on their kitchen or living room wall.

They were given as gifts to politicians and dignitaries who visited our province. It was a little piece of New Brunswick that they’d get to take home.

He loved telling people how two of his clocks were in Russia. I can still see the smile on his face every time he said it.

I applied to the Woodworking Technology Program and got accepted.

Before I even had time to realize what was happening, my mother had my car packed and was telling me she’d see me at Thanksgiving.

And not a weekend sooner.

I lived in an apartment on Water Street above Al’s Pizzeria.

The heat from the pizza oven below kept the floors in the apartment warm.

I also became a regular customer at the establishment.

I still think about taking the 4-hour drive north to buy one of their donairs.

Some nights, I would take a walk down to the waterfront, and have a seat on the fountain by Restigouche Sam, the 28-foot stainless steel salmon statue, erected to honour the rich salmon fishing industry of the Restigouche, and stare of into the hills across the mouth of the river.

I’d usually stop before I made my visit to Sam and grab an ice cream.

It helps feed the moment of reflection.

I’m not saying Angela Hicks was ever in the ice cream shop at the same time as me.

I’m not saying she wasn’t either.

She would have been the woman asking for a couple scoops of Peanut Butter Fudge Crunch.

Even then, I liked to play a little game I called, “Judge people by their ice cream choices.”

If Angela had of happened by chance to be standing beside me at the ice cream cooler with a cone of Peanut butter Fudge Crunch, I may have thought that she was reliable, valued satisfaction over the finer things, and grounded in who they are.

I met her for real her over 20 years later.

And I have to say, the ice cream is always right.

The Conversation I didn’t want to end

When I sit down with someone who agrees to let me tell their story, it is basically just a conversation.

I ask a few of my signature questions, just toss them out there, and we just let the chat roll and see where it goes.

They ask me questions, too. We feed off of each other, and we see if we connect.

She was open, honest, and everything was on the table.

I didn’t want it to end.

She grew up on Tingley Crescent, in Campbellton in low-income housing.

Her mother raised her and her three sisters on a single income and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She recalls sitting at the table with her sisters eating supper while her mom worked away in the kitchen.

They would ask her why she wasn’t sitting down to eat, and the answer was often, “Oh, I’m not hungry.”

Just a little white lie. The kind that kids will accept and make them stop asking questions.

But we know how the story goes.

It was until Angela was a little bit older; did she know what it really meant too.

The girls could eat. Mom would survive.

Priorities.

Money was tight, as only people who survived it could understand. The kind where survival mode takes over.

Her father came from a Lebanese family that had immigrated to Canada.

He served in the military for a few years.

He had demons. And the demons led to addiction.

Back in the day, when snack companies would reward your loyalty with prizes, Hostess had a contest where if you collected so many chip bags and sent them in, they would send back a Care Bear.

It was also a time when you opened the bag of chips; it was full, not half filled with air.

While the girls would be perched in front of the TV watching that very show, her mother would organize the bags and mail them in.

They acquired quite a collection.

She went to work at McDonald’s when she was 13 and eventually graduated up to the local Dixie Lee. She became known as the “Dixie Lee” girl.

It’s a moniker she still proudly wears.

She could have easily taken the path of the system she grew up in.

And she admits, for a time, the needle was pointing in that direction.

It’s easy to take advantage of the circumstances you are living in and do things you shouldn’t be doing when the watchful eye is off, making sure there is food on the table the next day.

And teenagers have a knack for exploiting that.

I say this to kids today, and I don’t think it hits home for them.

Growing up in the 80’s wasn’t just a period of time.

It was a state of mind.

Big hair, neon clothes, and muscle cars.

Heavy metal hair bands, and a lot fewer rules.

So it wasn’t that hard for 15-year-old Angela to sneak off to Moncton to watch Metallica in concert when she thought no one was watching.

But there is always someone watching.

Like her typing teacher, Mr. Day.

He had heard about the escape to Moncton to the concert, and he ratted her out.

Not because he was vindictive, but because he saw something in her.

He saw potential.

He believed in her.

He believed she could outrun the hand she had been dealt and make a better life for herself.

What is the saying? Not all heroes wear capes?

The best heroes wear polyester pants, striped button up shirts, and wing tipped shoes, and show up for you when they don’t really have to.

She applied to herself. Really dug in. Kept working at Dixie Lee, helped out at home.

She volunteered with the Campbellton Fire Department, which ignited a lifelong dedication to volunteering.

Freddy Beach Bound

Eventually, she made her way to Fredericton, and Saint Thomas University, and enrolled in the Criminology program.

She still went back home every weekend to work at Dixie Lee. Why would you give up a sweet gig like that?

But deep down, she knew that Fredericton was her future.

It is where she met Steve, and he introduced her to his family, friends, and the tight knit community of Marysville.

Her initial introduction to Marysville was friendly and cordial.

But they had to assess and check her out to see if she was worthy of citizenship.

She had to earn her stripes.

Marysville is a proud, closed, distinct community on its own within the city proper.

If by chance you meet someone from the Ville for the first time, not knowing where they live, and you ask them if they live in Fredericton, the answer is always:
“Yup, I’m from Marysville.”

She loved that Boss Gibson loved his wife so much he named the place after her. That alone tells you everything you need to know about the values around there.

She also confessed to a fascination with graveyards, even pulling the car over to wander, read names, connect dots, and wonder about the people time quietly forgot. Boss Gibson’s resting place, she says, is something everyone should see at least once.

She was in awe at the way that the locals rallied with each other, and the many staple places and causes in their own little community they all supported.

Royals Field and their baseball team.

The Marysville Legion and the pride they took in their Veteran’s and Veteran’s Park.

How people like Steve’s dad, Bob, and many others, took money out of their own pocket and threw it in the pot so the Marysville boys could go to a baseball tournament out west.

She saw people believing in each other and working together to support the greater good.

She knew she had found a new home. She knew she wanted to be part of it.

She said she thought it was great that everyone got a nickname.

And I laughed, because the first time I told my wife I was going to hang out with Steve, the first thing she said was, “He gave me my nickname.”

I used to play hockey against some of those Marysville boys in the Stanley Industrial League.

Trust me. Nicknames were exchanged. Generously.

This is a PG story, so we’ll leave those names on the ice.

At first, they tagged her “The Import.’

Eventually, she graduated to “The Dragon.”

No need for an explanation.

Making a Difference

Angela and Steve graduated from Saint Thomas, and went out to start their lives together.

She dedicated her career to helping people who needed it the most.

Group homes.
Outreach programs.
The John Howard Society.

She landed a job as a case manager for Corrections Canada and is now a program officer.

She spends her days teaching people who’ve lost their way, how to find it again. Life skills. Accountability. How to re-enter society without repeating the same chapters.

That job takes a special kind of human.

Which brings us to Fredericton in 2026.

Public safety is the issue.
Crime. Housing. Addiction. Mental health.
They’re all connected, and they’re all showing up on our streets.

I can’t think of a more qualified person to help lead on these issues from City Hall.

She hasn’t just studied them.
She’s lived them.
She’s survived them.
And she’s dedicated her life to fixing them.

I asked her what the toughest part of being a city councilor would be if she were elected.

“Biting my tongue.”

Don’t do that, Angela.
We actually want to hear what you have to say.

Angela and Steve raised two daughters, built their careers, and planted themselves firmly in Marysville.

Then they did something they didn’t have to do.

They opened their home.
And their hearts.
And became foster parents to a little girl.

When she talked about her, the love wasn’t a performance.

It radiated.

Purely organic.

The kind that comes from gratitude, from understanding how easily life can tilt one way or another.

It was about turning something heavy into something hopeful.
About guidance and making sure the needle points in the right direction.

The truth is Angela could have very easily ended up on the other side of a statistic.

Near the end of our conversation, when she spoke about fostering, I noticed something else.

Something quieter.

I don’t even know if she’s aware of it.

It was as if she was saying, without saying it:

“Hey Mr. Day. I remember what you did for me. Thank you.”

Lately, I’ve been on the hunt for nostalgia.

So much that it’s invading my dreams at night and leaves me waking up with that warm and fuzzy feeling.

I don’t mean I want to jump in a DeLorean and shoot through the space time continuum with Marty and Doc. That would be cool though.

It’s more of the search for “what did they get right back then?”

It’s a search for what worked and what clicked.

What made people feel connected to their neighbors, their city and community.

How we went from showing up to checking out.

From knowing everyone who lived on your street, and being friends with the people who represented you, to having to Google to find out who is supposed to be your voice on council.

I’m not looking for the past so I can live in it.

I’m searching for what happened between then and now, that got us to a place of declining civic engagement.

Perhaps the answers to those questions are in some places we stopped paying attention to.

With the upcoming Municipal elections, in Fredericton, there has been a surge of people coming out to let their name stand for council.

That is encouraging.

These are people who have stuck around when it would have been just as easy to leave.

They’ve chosen to start their families here. They have run businesses. They have volunteered and fought for everything they know this city can be.

It is as if the stars finally aligned and they collectively decided to stop waiting for the torch to be passed and they reached out and took it.

One of those people is Kate Hunter, candidate for council in Ward 1.

New Life. Same Soul

If successful for her bid for council, she would represent the Ward that our family currently lives in.

We met for coffee at Heaven in Devon.

Which is important.

It’s important because the building is now home to a cafe, a hair salon and short-term rentals.

Not long ago, it was a building in disrepair that time had forgotten about.

That is, until one of Kate’s childhood besties, Jen Mabie, had a vision, which was armed with stubborn optimism and an ungodly amount of caffeine.

New life. Same soul. Vintage is intact.

Jen’s determination is proof that we can embrace the past without having to hold on to it.

I spent two hours with Kate and that gave me insight into what made her tick.

You could see the passion seep out as she talked about her upbringing and vision for Fredericton.

About what’s important, and that if we forget to tell the stories and save the places that made this city great, it means we are basically tossing opportunities out with the bath water.

I needed to test her leadership chops with my totally 100% accurate and scientific metric of relatability.

“What is your favorite ice cream?”

Peanut Butter Fudge Crunch.

A little bit of everything. I like it.

Peanut Butter – cozy and comfortable.

Fudge – generously textured.

Crunch – chaos. The good kind.

Exactly the kind of personality that should be around the council table.

Kate isn’t the type of personality that says, “someone should do this, or someone should start that.”

She is the someone who is doing this, and the someone that started that.

She thought Fredericton needed a new Christmas Market as an avenue for local artists and craftspeople to showcase their work.

She built The Holly Jolly Market into one of the city’s signature seasonal events.

And she paid attention to every detail.

She designs her floor plan to leave space so people can stop and chat and connect, without interrupting the flow of traffic, or blocking entrances to vendors.

It’s not about her. It’s about the community.

It’s about people reconnecting. Old friends, new friends, and maybe even strangers who end up as friends.

Because that matters.

Raised to Give a Damn

Her passion for the city and the people, places and things that matter didn’t come out of nowhere.

It came from home.

Like her father, Charlie Bird.

When the city decided that the fate of York Arena was a wrecking ball, he was one of the people that led the charge to save it.

York Arena isn’t just a building.

It’s where generations of kids dreamed NHL dreams.

It’s where the community packed the stands.

It’s where a guy named Willie O’Ree captivated the community with his skills on the ice and the people in the stands rallied behind him, as he broke through the NHL’s colour barrier.

Jackie Robinson made history on April 15^th, 1947, at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn.

Ebbets field was demolished in 1960.

York Arena still stands.

Because people like Kate’s father and a group of dedicated people who all held the same belief.

York Arena matters.

How it has not yet been designated as a historic building of national significance is mind boggling.

Maybe if Kate is successful in the election, she can do something about that.

She probably already has the business case printed.

History Hiding in Plain Sight

Sitting with Kate over coffee was like sitting with a living encyclopedia on the history of Fredericton.

She gave me two examples of what I thought were significant importance to the city that I knew absolutely nothing about.

Did you know that one of the first readings and copies of one of the world’s most famous poems has a direct Fredericton connection?

Paraphrasing here.

Jonathon O’Dell (you may recognize the last name) was Godfather to the poems author, Clement Clark Moore.

They corresponded regularly through letters. That’s how they did things back then, before the convenience of being able to just slide into someone’s DMs.

At one point, Moore sent a poem that he wrote.

It was originally titled “A Visit from Saint Nicholas.”

You may know it as “Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

Perhaps the most printed, recited and memorized American poem of all time.

It introduced us to the modern-day Santa Claus.

Moore first published the poem in 1844.

A copy of the poem was found in O’Dell’s papers... dated 1825.

(You can read the fully story here: https://backyardhistory.ca/articles/f/twas-the-night-before-christmas-maritimes-connection)

How has the city not taken advantage of this and created a signature annual event to celebrate the fact that we were so cool that Santa chose to visit us first?

I know someone who has some ideas about that.

Mary Grannan. Ever heard of her?

Me either. Until I met Kate.

Born in Fredericton in 1900, Mary Grannan taught 1^st grade at the Devon Superior School.

She was also a children’s author who has helped shape the education and imagination of generations of kids.

Including mine. And I didn’t even know it.

She became a producer for CBC and was instrumental in trailblazing the way for the future children’s programs like Mr. Dressup, Fred Penner, and The Racoons.

Sorry.

Short pause here as I wipe away a tear.

Any mention of Mr. Dressup these days hits me right in the feels.

Maybe this is on me for not digging deep enough, but I didn’t know any of this. And once I did, I felt a weird feeling of guilt for not knowing her name sooner.

Kate knew it, though.

Why?

Because it matters.

Maybe, when she’s elected to council, she can petition fellow councilors to dedicate a wing of the playhouse to Mary Grannan.

There’s no one more deserving.

And it might be one small thing that takes your mind off the ballooning cost of the building.

Don’t get me started on that.

Off Ice and On Point

Don’t let her passion for the past and everything that has made Fredericton the city that it is fool you.

She’s very much a forward thinker.

Her daughters wanted to play hockey. Did Kate sit in the stands clutching a coffee?

HaHa. No.

They all jumped in with both feet and joined the Rink Rebels girl’s hockey program.

The Rebels didn’t just get their daughters on the ice. They also got Kate’s brain which is full of other ideas.

Off ice skill building.

Turning those idle hours between tournament games into an opportunity.

A chance to develop life skills, teach crafts, and interact with new friends away from the battlefield.

These are things that last well beyond the final buzzer.

Kate and her husband Matt run a property management business.

They could personally benefit from Fredericton’s 4 Unit housing proposal.

They oppose it.

Why?

Because it’s not the right fit for the city.

Canada is a combination of communities, each with their own unique personalities.

That type of proposal may work in Toronto or Vancouver. Sure, maybe there.

Fredericton? Not so much.

Grabbing federal funds just because they exist, without caring for the city’s character, is like putting a square peg in a round hole.

What’s worse? A Mayor and councilors who had the audacity to tell those who opposed the plan to hush.

To claim that owning a home you worked for, that you built equity in, is somehow “exclusionary” or “discriminatory”?

That’s not just short-sighted.

It’s insulting to the taxpayers.

Kate and Matt are standing up for Fredericton. Sometimes the right choice is the hardest one to make.

Inherited Fire

I made what I thought was an innocent comment after Kate shared some of her vision:

“You have a lot on your list, if you can accomplish 50% of what you want to do in 4 years, that will be a huge success.”

And then I got a look that maybe I had grown two heads.

I could almost see the wires crossing.

Did I just doubt her?

Tread lightly, Bobby.

Here’s the thing. In Kate’s world, everything can be accomplished if you have the vision and are willing to put in the blood sweat and tears to follow through.

So, maybe I spoke out of turn.

In that moment, I realized that she is not aiming to just succeed. She is aiming to rewrite the playbook.

I asked Kate who’s been cheering the loudest for her bid for council.

Her answer?

“My Dad.”

And suddenly, I seen where she got her passion from.

Her eyes welled up as she spoke about him. Pride, love, and a little awe all rolled into one.

She even had to pause.

Because when someone shapes you like that, words aren’t always enough.

He gave her a love for her community, the kind that makes you fight for it fiercely. He taught her that learning about and honoring your history isn’t just okay; it’s essential.

But also? Looking toward the future is just as important.

The two things can go hand in hand.

Because it matters.

It was one of those August Friday nights where the air just sticks to you.

My daughter and I had just finished up one of our “adventures” in downtown Fredericton. We’ve been doing them since she was a toddler. Just me and her, exploring all it has to offer.

We roamed the trails, made wishes to the fountain at City Hall, and checked out the vibe in Officer’s Square.

We stopped into the iconic Tony’s Music Box where she looked at the guitars and ran her fingers across the ivory keys of the pianos. Then it was off to the room with the drums where she beat out any preteen frustrations with the drumsticks.

All these things were just foreplay for our inevitable last stop for ice cream.

But our last adventure of the summer felt different than all our previous ones.

We saw a man arguing with a lamp post. The lamp post was winning.

We were hit up by panhandlers who weren’t really asking for spare change; they were demanding it like they worked at a toll booth.

Garbage cans spilled over on to the sidewalks, and store fronts that were once home to businesses now had For Lease signs in the window.

Patios that would normally be overflowing were half filled.

The streets were empty.

You could have fired a cannon ball down King or Queen Streets, and it wouldn’t have hit anything until it struck the truck wedged in the underpass of the Bill Thorpe walking bridge.

When we got home to the comfort of the air conditioning, I found my perch in front of the TV to watch the ball game. But my mind kept replaying the events from earlier like a bad highlight reel.

Then, I remembered that I had heard Steve Hicks was thinking about running for Mayor.

So, in a moment of pure rage, I shot him off a message, telling him what I had seen earlier and that if he was seriously considering it, I would help however I could, expecting my words to be ignored. But I was satisfied that I got them off my chest.

Less than an hour later, he replied.

We met the next week, sitting at a picnic table at Picaroon’s.

We talked like two guys who didn’t have enough beer to solve all the city’s problems.

I talked like I had the moving truck half packed.

He listened. He talked liked someone who was aware of the issues and had ideas to fix them

18 years as city councilor, apparently you pick up a few things.

He is so rooted in the city and his home borough of Marysville, he has it tattooed on his arm.

He is the most prepared public figure when it comes to the issues before him that I have ever met.

He doesn’t just love the city; he sees it.

What it is and what it could be.

That conversation convinced me to stay.

Some people always thought he was destined for something bigger. Others didn’t see him coming.

Steve Hicks is on a mission.

My Generation

If you have read some of my previous pieces, you’ll find that I have a passion for ice cream. Someone’s favorite flavour tells me all I need to know about them, and if I can relate.

So, when I asked Steve what his favourite flavour was, I braced myself.

“Butterscotch Ripple.”

Not my first choice.

Or my second.

But I wouldn’t refuse it if it was the only thing in the freezer at 10:30, and I was standing in the kitchen questioning my dignity.

When I went on Google to find out how butterscotch ripple defined the personality of an individual, I was shocked at how accurate the results were.

The first thing that popped up:

They appreciate classics over trends.

Choosing Butterscotch Ripple as a favourite treat tells me he’s dependable, and unapologetically old school. He’s nostalgic but not stuck in the past.

Since we met that day at the picnic table at Picaroon’s, every conversation has seemed to start with the task at hand, and end with a trip down memory lane.

He grew up on Veterans Drive in Marysville. Possibly the most Marysville street in the history of streets in Marysville.

His parents loved it so much; they lived in four different houses on Veterans Drive when he was a kid.

That’s not being afraid of change. That’s valuing consistency.

His parents had a van that was nicknamed “The Tank.” His father welded a couple of old bus seats in it, so he could load all the Marysville kids in it to travel to their ball games.

That’s where lifelong friendships were formed. Where life lessons were learned, and where modern-day car safety laws were invented.

Only a select few parents would dare let their kids ride with Steve’s old man. He lost his license three times for speeding.

I’m envisioning the Scooby Doo gang cruising around in The Mystery Machine for some reason.

They lived a short stagger from the Marysville Legion. On a couple of occasions, some patrons who partook in a little too much cheer decided to take a chance behind the wheel.

“The Tank” was parked in the driveway at the bottom of the street.

“The Tank” was the victim of their poor decisions.

Or maybe the folks who decided to take their chance after a few too many cocktails were the victims of “The Tank”, because “The Tank” never got a scratch, and they got a trip to a different kind of Tank.

Strong, dependable and built to last.

Glory Days

I haven’t scrolled through Steve’s Spotify playlist.

But I think it’s safe to say that somewhere between his walk-up song and what he listens to while chillin’ in the basement, you will find a healthy dose of classics.

Metallica.

The Grateful Dead.

Given his thick mane of hair, it’s almost as if the Dead’s tune “Touch of Grey” plays when he walks through the door.

Nostalgia is a funny thing.

Fredericton celebrates its traditions.

Steve knows that.

He also knows that the path forward isn’t the status quo.

One minute you are telling your kids about the time you lost your lunch on the Zipper, the next you are going against the grain and standing alone on city council when the topic of the land you hurled on is debated in the city hall chambers.

The Fredericton Exhibition Grounds is one of those topics.

The 30-acre plot of land that sits in the heart of the cities southside has been hosting an annual exhibition for almost 200 years.

The land has seen more livestock hauled in, dippy dogs consumed, and awkward first kiss attempts on the Ferris Wheel than anywhere in the world per capita.

The land was a gift from the O’Dell family in 1924, with the caveat that the property always be used for agriculture, entertainment and exhibition.

24 years later, an agreement between Fredericton Exhibition, City of Fredericton and Agricultural Society saw the City of Fredericton given title to the Exhibition grounds in trust and Fredericton Exhibition Ltd. given exclusive use, leasing the land in perpetuity which automatically renewed every 21 years for the sum of $1.

The land was never meant to be a bargaining chip.

It was a gift.

To the people of Fredericton.

Now, does the city need housing?
Yup.

Does it need a new school?
Also, yup.

Is Steve aware of that and open to solutions?

You guessed it. Absolutely, yup.

His view is that the move to expropriate the land goes against the original intention of the purpose of the gift.

He’s fighting for a negotiated solution to resolve the impasse. Not a costly court battle.

The answer to every modern problem isn’t bulldozing our history and hoping nobody notices.

Sometimes the better move is remembering why a place mattered in the first place. And finding a way to make it matter again.

The answer may very well be found in the middle somewhere.

It like the Rolling Stones sang:

“You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime, you’ll find
You get what you need”

Enter The Dragon

Steve and his wife Angela met in Fredericton.

The city has a way of pairing you with the right person to run with for life.

He calls her “The Dragon.”

Not because she breathes fire. Just... give it time. You’ll see why. Soon.

They built their careers, their homes, and their lives here. They’ve raised two fierce daughters and opened their doors to foster another.

Not only do they lead by example; they are the example.

He’s a certified girl Dad, living in a home where he knows he’s at the bottom of the pecking order.

I don’t laugh at him.

I relate. I feel his pain.

I’m a girl Dad too.

We’ve survived the Taylor Swift era, and somewhere along the way, we learned more about make up than any two men should.

Frederictonians all carry the same dream.

They want a city where their kids can roam the streets with their friends, make lifelong memories, the occasional mistake, and still find their way home safe.

Mornings taking ground balls on Baseball Hill.

Afternoons, cooling off in the Nashwaak.

And knowing that when the streetlights flickered on, it was time to head home.

And parents shouldn’t have to worry about their kids making it home safe.

That feels like a pipedream in the city these days.

Ask anyone in Fredericton what the number one issue is.

They don’t blink; you’ll get the same answer every single time.

Public safety.

It’s not just one thing. It’s homelessness. It’s drug use. It’s a mental-health crisis that’s way above the city’s pay grade. Yet, somehow still landing on our front steps.

Fredericton isn’t the only city to have these problems.

We’re special because they’re playing out in the middle of our most popular places.

Downtown might be the focal point, but the rest of the city isn’t off the hook.

People look over their shoulders on walking trails now.

City crews do the morning clean-up at the splash pad every summer, sweeping away needles and paraphernalia before kids show up with towels and juice boxes.

And business owners?

When they lock up for the night, they hold their breath and hope tomorrow morning doesn’t come with surprises no one should have to deal with.

Money Talks

Spending at City Hall is like a late-night trip to the Diplomat after a night out dancing at Harvest. No one remembers ordering it, but the bill still has to be paid.

Year after year, the budget balloons past inflation for no reason other than a collective shrug and a “well, it is what it is.”

That’s not how it works.

That’s how you end up broke. And trimming infrastructure.

That’s how you have too quietly reduce services while pretending everything is fine.

If spending doesn’t get under control, the city won’t be making “tough choices.” It’ll be making desperate ones.

Enter Steve Hicks.

He’s got the experience, the background, and let’s call it what it is, the unshakable resolve, to wade into this mess without flinching.

His voting record shows he’s not afraid to stand up for the people he represents, even when it means standing alone in council chambers like the last honest kid in detention.

Man in the Mirror

I bumped into one of Steve’s longtime friends, Jody Peterson, not long. He road shotgun in The Tank. The topic of Steve running for mayor came up.

Without missing a beat, Jody said:

“Don’t underestimate Hicksy. He’s got what it takes.”

Funny thing is, Butterscotch Ripple says that too.

People hear plain and think boring. They’re wrong.

Butterscotch Ripple people tend to have strong opinions, dry humour, and a habit of surprising you once they finally open their mouths.

Sound like anyone you’d want watching over the city’s cheque book?

Yeah. Me too.

Smart decisions.

No fake consultations.

Doing what you say you’re going to do while staying true to your convictions.

That’s the kind of leadership this city needs.

Maybe his favourite ice cream isn’t the only thing that gives him away.

Maybe his path to City Hall was welded together like the seats in “The Tank”.

And somehow, he turned out to be Butterscotch Ripple.