London park hits the mark

The city's Victoria Park truly is a park for all seasons.

During the springtime, the downtown park becomes a hub of activity as Londoners emerge from hibernation to rediscover the great outdoors. Then in the summer people picnic and throw Frisbees in the abundant green space, while the less athletically inclined individuals read books under the shade of the century-old trees. By autumn, the park becomes a great destination to take in the fall foliage, boasting a wide array of oranges, reds and yellows. On Nov. 26, the downtown park transformed into a winter wonderland as thousands of Christmas lights turned on and space was made for the ice rink once the weather realizes it's December.

Established as a social hub in 1874 after years of military use, Victoria Park is the Canadian equivalent of the United State's Central Park, albeit much smaller, spanning only 15 acres compared to the big apple's 770-acre green space.

Londoners make use of the park all year round. During the fall, Remembrance Day is observed at the cenotaph in the park's southeast corner. Revelers pack the park to ring in the New Year in the winter (real Canadians don't party indoors on Dec. 31). In the spring, protesters descend upon the bandshell and make some noise about one issue or another – probably hoping the bandshell's good acoustics will help get their message heard. And I don't even have enough space in this column to list the many festivals happening at the park throughout the summer. From Ribfest and Sunfest to the International Food Festival and LOLA, the City of London estimates that one million visitors pass through the park for numerous special events.

There's no off-season for the downtown park. And although the grass isn't fit to putt on, it looks pretty good for all the trampling it takes.

If James Brown is considered the hardest working man in show business, then Vic Park is the hardest working venue in the … park business?

Sadly, with the onset of winter, the park loses its beloved mascot: the squirrel.

Nowhere in the world are squirrels as friendly – or as fat – as they are in the downtown park, where it's not uncommon for one of the furry rodents to eat directly from people's hands.

I doubt the wildlife at Central Park would eat a peanut out of anyone's hand. But, then again, New Yorkers aren't renowned for their friendliness.

Winter fitness 101

I think I’ve finally discovered why Canadians are slimmer than our neighbours to the south.

According to a 2004 Statistics Canada report, the obesity rate in Canada is 23.1% for males and females over the age of 18, compared to 29.7% in the United States.

While experts like dieticians and scientists place the blame on fast food, video games and other culprits, I’ve found the real reason: winter.

Yes, we’re thinner because of our cold northern winters.

Think about all of the extra physical activity we Canucks get from December to March. First, we shovel hundreds of kilograms of snow. While the white stuff may look soft and fluffy in pictures, it’s much like a woman’s purse – easy on the eyes but hard on the shoulders.

Then there’s the second exercise in the winter workout: pushing stuck automobiles. This lift primarily works the latissimus dorsi (back) and the deltoids (shoulders). And don’t forget clearing the car, an exercise that tones and defines the triceps though repetition.

Canadians get their daily cardio fix by putting on all those extra layers of clothing. With all the bending and squatting to pull on three pairs of socks, the reaching down to lace up boots, and the stretching to get appendages into snow pants and jackets, getting dressed for the outdoors is the equivalent of completing a yoga session.

I find it ironic that gyms typically get a whole lot busier in January as people rush to the treadmill to work off those extra holiday calories and honour New Year’s resolutions. All these well-intentioned individuals have to do is run more errands to shed those unwanted pounds.

Look at it like this: a trip to the grocery story requires you to get bundled up, then you’ll have to shovel the snow from the mouth of your driveway because the plow just finished your street. Next you have to chisel a thick layer of ice from your windshield, then you’ll probably have to stop along the way to help push at least three cars stuck in the ditch (the fifth Canadian commandment is thou shall always help push). Finally, after spending a half hour in the store, you’ll come out to a snow-covered car and have to repeat cycle.

So the next time you complain about the snowy season, just look down at your waistline and remember that winter isn’t so bad.

A whole set of sweet teeth

It's understood that working as a reporter may be a dangerous job at times.
From covering conflicts to exposing corruption to reporting on crime, many journalists have died in the line of duty.
But when I landed a job as a multimedia reporter at the Londoner, I thought I had a pretty safe gig. Since starting my new job a few months ago though, I discovered a grave threat to my health: workplace sweets.
Sugary snacks seem to be everywhere I turn at my office. My co-workers at the Sun Media building on Gainsborough Road bring in leftover cookies, extra Halloween candy, random cinnamon buns and all sorts of other confections. We even have a bi-weekly cake day!
Make no mistake, I don't hate these tasty treats – it would be much easier if I did. My problem is I have an insatiable sweet tooth. And it's my teeth I'm worried about. At 26 years old, I've never had a single cavity, but that streak can't continue with the amount of sweets at my workplace. Sometimes I feel like I work at Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.
It doesn't help that I sit just a few feet from most tempting source of all: the office candy jar.
As if it wasn't hard enough to be within eyesight of this candy mecca, but to make maters worse the container is constantly stocked with amazing treats like Swedish Berries, Aero bars and Jolly Ranchers.
It would be much easier to ignore the jar if it was stocked with black licorice or candy corn.
Since starting in September, I've gone through three stages. First, I indulged in the treats, eating as many as I could, sometimes waking up with a sugar hangover the following day. Next, I felt guilty about all the junk I was eating so I tried to eat in moderation, but ended up binging again. Finally, I decided to quit sugar cold turkey, but soon the cookie cravings became too much, and then cake day hit and I relapsed.
My situation reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where Elaine gets fed up with the atmosphere of excess sugar consumption at her office and swears off sweets, only to realize she's hooked on mid-afternoon cake.
When I'm packing my lunch in the morning I'll throw in an orange or an apple thinking it might substitute for my daily candy fix, but when lunchtime rolls around my fruit doesn't look so appealing compared to a chocolate cupcake.
My name is Dale Carruthers and I'm addicted to sweets.
This addiction is especially embarrassing for a man my age. You never hear of rock stars addicted to licorice, and professional athletes hooked on donuts don't make the headlines. There's nothing glamorous about my addiction. I can only imagine my dentist shaking his head when he reads this.
But I guess the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

Lawnmower man

This week I'll roll out my lawnmower for the last cut of the season.
And although this might be a welcome occasion for some, I'll dearly miss cutting the grass.
While lawn mowing technically falls into the chore category, it's one task I've always enjoyed. First, it's outside, and I love the outdoors. Second, the smell is second to none. The aroma of fresh cut grass is more appealing than the scent of clean laundry and the smell of sizzling bacon combined. Throw in a faint waft of gasoline from the engine and I'm in olfactory heaven.
I remember being young and desperately wanting to mow the lawn – a job held by my father. One day, my dad, intrigued by the idea of cutting down his share of the housework, told me I was finally old enough to use the lawnmower. This was a male rite of passage in my household. My older brother mowed, my dad mowed, and now it was my time.
After a brief lesson that involved more instructions on what not to do, I was ready to mow.
I was a natural, my dad said, assigning me to cut the front lawn once a week.
Yes, I was finally the lawnmower man – not to be confused with the bizarre 1992 film, Lawnmower Man, based on the Stephen King story, in which Pierce Brosnan experiments with virtual reality (I bet Brosnan's never done a decent day's mowing in his life).
As a man who can't fix a toilet, assemble a barbecue, tile a floor or do anything remotely handy, it feels good to be able to do a somewhat manly task.
There's something satisfying about cutting grass. A house with a freshly mowed lawn looks so much better than a residence with an overgrown yard.
Every spring I eagerly anticipate the first cut of the season. Now, I'm bidding goodbye to my beloved seasonal pastime for six months.
Another sad part about putting the lawnmower away is that it signifies that snow shoveling is in the not-to-distant future. I don't find any joy in snow removal. Maybe if I had a snow blower I'd like it more. After all, it wouldn't be so different from pushing a lawnmower, but without the shinning sun and sweet smell.
But gazing on a freshly shoveled driveway doesn't provide the same sense of accomplishment as looking at a perfectly cut front lawn.
This weekend when I fire up my lawnmower's engine for the last time, I'll make sure to savour each column and row I cut in the thick, leaf covered grass because it will be the last time I mow my lawn in 2010.

There goes the sun

This Sunday a thief will break into homes across Canada and steal something dear to us all: daylight.
The cold-hearted culprit, daylight saving time, is set to silently snatch an hour of our dwindling daylight early Sunday morning at 2 a.m., as clocks across the country are turned back an hour.
As if it wasn't bad enough that the sun sets at 6:15 p.m. already. Now we'll be bidding goodbye to the fire in the sky a few minutes past 5 p.m. – that means dinner in the dark for most, except those fond of the early bird special.
Although some short-sighted college and university students may cheer DST because it means an extra hour of drinking at the bar on Saturday night, there's nothing to applaud about this tragic day that never fails to show up on the first Sunday of November.
And I know I'm not the only person with anti-DST feelings. Few countries outside of the Western world even practise the twice-annual ritual. This may be the only time you ever hear me say we should be more like the North Koreans.
First enacted in North America during the First World War, experts argued that DST saves energy by taking advantage of longer daytime hours between spring and autumn.
But where does that leave us during the winter months? In the dark, I guess.
Seeing as how we don't turn our clocks ahead until March, I might as well start looking on the bright side (no pun intended) of DST. At least we'll get an extra hour on Sunday.
Perhaps I'll watch my favourite television program, 60 Minutes, with my added hour – although I'm not sure if I'll have enough time.
With the sun setting at such an early hour, I'll be better able to follow the advice of Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of the United States.
Big Ben famously said, "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise."
While there's nothing glamorous about going to bed before Survivor ends, and waking up early is only cool if you're a rooster. I can't argue with the man who helped pen the American Constitution and invented ­bifocals and the lightening rod.

Journey to the "dark roasted" side

It's Monday morning, and I'm tempted to go over to the dark side.
No, I'm not talking about joining Darth Vader's quest for universal domination, nor am I planning on listening to Pink Floyd's eighth studio album. The dark side I'm thinking about crossing involves caffeine – specifically, coffee.
I've never been a coffee drinker. In fact, I've only drank one cup of joe in my 26 years. Even working at Tim Hortons for nearly three years as a teenager, I didn't indulge in Canada's unofficial hot beverage.

But today I just can't seem to wake up and I need a boost – and my green tea with honey isn't doing the trick.
Sometimes when I'm really tired I have an energy drink. But I would feel unprofessional sipping a Red Bull in the newsroom. When I think of Red Bull drinkers, I imagine party animals, running on 30 minutes sleep, and still tipsy from the previous night's bender.
For me, it seems foolish to drink a Red Bull after I stayed up too late Sunday night ironing my weekly work clothes and watching 60 Minutes.
This isn't the first time I've been tempted to turn to coffee on a miserable Monday morning. But the same ritual fears continue to hold me back from crossing over to the dark side.
First, I hate the taste of coffee (although I love the smell). Second, I don't want to become dependent on caffeine. I see coffee addicts everywhere. These are the people who can't start work, wake up or hold a conversation without their much-needed morning java fix. I don't want to be that person.
But I don't want to be the person I am right now, either – a zombie.
So what is a young journalist to do?
As I look around the office I see Starbucks cups or refillable mugs on almost every desk.
Coffee, believed to have originated in Ethiopia, is one of the most widely drank beverages in the world. From South America to the Middle East, everyone seems to be drinking coffee. Maybe I should just join the masses. Then when a friend or co-worker does a Tim Hortons run I wouldn't have to sheepishly ask for a jelly donut.
But on second thought I see a flaw in caffeine consumption. Yes, coffee drinkers perk up after getting their java fix, but that high is short-lived, then it's right back to where they started an hour ago.
Meanwhile, I'm only getting more awake as the day goes on.
So I'll leave coffee to the caffeine consumers, Red Bull to the rock stars, and I'll just try to get to bed on time in the future.

Got hair?

It's that time of the month again for me: I'm due for a haircut.
Getting a haircut isn't an enjoyable ­experience. First, it costs money. I got my last two cuts in different cities – something I regret doing. For one, I was in Montreal attending a bachelor party when I went to the mall to get a pre-party trim. After ­finishing my cut the girl at the counter asked for $30. I was shocked. Clearly reading my terrible poker face she said, "Welcome to downtown Montreal."
But my French Canadian cut didn't ­prepare me for what I encountered four weeks ago in Toronto.
As the best man for a wedding, I wanted to look sharp. So I went to a upscale ­barbershop in Toronto's trendy King West district to get my hair did a few hours before the ceremony.
This time a wash, cut and style set me back a whopping $50 – another costly welcome to a Canadian metrolopolis.
Note to self: the smaller the city, the cheaper the price for this dreaded service.
But it's not just the monetary aspect of haircuts that leaves me sour.
I'm not a fan of the obligatory small talk with the stylist. It's always the same conversation, "What do you do? How was your weekend?"
And the worst question, "What do you want me to do with your hair?"
I never know what to say to this query. I'm sure I don't want to leave with a Justin ­Bieber 'doo or look like an enlisted man, but I'm not exactly sure what I want, either. The ­hairdresser is the expert, so I want them to make a decision. It's like going to the doctor for a physical and the physician asking, "What do you want me to do?"
But the worst part about haircuts is I'm locked in a never-ending cycle. I get a haircut; it looks bad for a week, then it looks decent for about 10 days before it goes back to looking overgrown for another week, and then I have to repeat the process again. I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
I wish my health plan covered haircuts – that would be great.
Sometimes I think I chose the wrong medium of journalism. Many television reporters get complimentary cuts to ensure they look good on the air. However, as an invisible newspaper scribe, my hair isn't a priority in the newsroom.
But I guess I really can't complain – the alternative to needing frequent haircuts isn't so great either.

Guess who's back?

Well, I’m finally getting around to doing it. After six months back in Canada I decided to return to the world of blogging. I don’t really know why it took me so long to get another blog up and going. After all, I love writing and taking pictures.
Perhaps I feared I was a one-hit wonder with Sleepless in Suva. I mean, will I be able to entertain readers now that I’m back in the Forest City or would I end up like that guy who sang the Macarena: all washed up … what was his name again?
In Fiji I had street dogs, local grifters, homemade licence plates, and a slew of other Third World anecdotes to blog about.
Now, back in London, I have two cats, a girlfriend who’s repeatedly requested to be left out of all of my writings and sleepwalking habit that I can’t seem to kick to rely on for material.
So you can see why I put off starting this new blog for so long.
But the fall is a time of new beginnings: students go back to school (suckers), a new season is ushered in, I just started a new job and we could even get a new mayor in London. Well, OK, the last one is bit of a stretch. But anyways, I’m back.

The apple of my eye

One of my favourite parts about October is it marks the beginning of Ontario apple season.
Yes, I know you can get apples all year round at any grocery story, but a California apple isn't even in the same league as an Ontario apple — it's like comparing apples to oranges … or tasteless, bruised pieces of fruit.
Autumn brings a wide variety of fresh local apples, from Jona Gold and Golden Delicious to the Northern Spy and the McIntosh. Each fall, I bid goodbye to boring apple juice and say hello to the king of beverages: apple cider.
Really, how many other drinks taste equally delicious when served both hot and cold? I dare you to bring your morning glass of orange juice to a boil or let your double-double get ice cold.
And the timing of apple season is impeccable. Summer brought a bounty of local berries, from blueberries to raspberries. So fruit fanatics are suffering from a berry hangover. Then the noble pomum (Latin for apple) comes along and saves the season with its crisp, multicoloured skin and juicy flesh.
Who can say no to an apple? Don't forget, it was an apple that lured Adam to his demise in the Garden of Eden. Had Eve offered him a papaya, he never would have eaten the forbidden fruit.
The apple is the king of fruits — it's even fabled to have medicinal properties, as the saying goes, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away." The apple is a symbol of health – just take a look at the huge mural on the Middlesex Health Unit building.
In fact, the apple is the most talked about fruit. If someone is well-liked, they're referred to as "the apple of my eye," whereas if the person is no good, they're referred to as "a bad apple."
And it's no coincidence that one of the most innovative technology companies in the world choose the fist-sized fruit as it's namesake and symbol. Obviously, Steve Jobs agrees with me on the top fruit.
As I type this column I'm munching on my favourite apple: the red delicious. It's a bold move naming a fruit delicious, but it lives up to expectations.
When it comes to eating apples, I do something slightly unorthodox — I eat the entire apple. In university I remember eating apples while riding the bus to school. When I started eating the core I got some strange looks from my fellow passengers, but I didn't care.
So put down the junk food and grab an apple — it's good for the Ontario farmers; it's good for your health and, most importantly, it tastes good.

A man for all seasons

It's official: summer is over and autumn has arrived.
Days are getting shorter, mornings growing colder, and the leaves are falling from the trees as animals prepare for hibernation.
I personally love fall. What's not to like about the season that offers Thanksgiving, new television programs, Ontario apples, great scenery, Halloween and the start of the NHL and NBA season?
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But some people complain about this sweet season. And it isn't only autumn that falls victim to season bashing. I'm constantly hearing friends, family and co-workers complain about winter being too cold, spring bringing allergies, summer humidity too much to handle, fall being too depressing and the list of grievances goes on.
In fact, the season slandering has got so out of control that I've come up with a new term for this type of prejudice: seasonalism.
Closed-minded seasonalists lurk in every corner of society, spreading their season-hating propaganda at workplace water coolers, coffee shops, sporting events – anywhere there's a pair of listening ears.
It's impossible to spot a seasonalist based on appearance, but they are easy to identify by their comments, casually suggesting we should do away with winter or saying spring is a far superior season fall. Many dream of a one-season state, much like California, where the weather is constantly warm during the day, but not hot, and cool at night, yet not cold.
One climate all year long? I think that would be boring.
Canada is such a great country because of its smorgasbord of seasons – we get a little taste of everything. Yes, there are downsides to each season: scraping your car in the winter morning is no picnic, seeing the sun set at 5 p.m. can be depressing and hay fever can be hell, but the negatives are minor in comparison to the great pluses each of the four seasons offer.
From the great beach weather in the summer and skiing in the winter to seeing flowers and trees bloom in the spring and then watching them graciously wither in the autumn, each season is unique in its own special way.
Like any prejudice, seasonalism is spawned from ignorance.
Poets, for example, are far too enlightened to stoop to petty seasonalism.
George Elliot described autumn as delicious, saying, "If I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
And Percy Shelley, the 19th century poet, declared, "There is a harmony in autumn."
I believe we as a nation must resist seasonalism and its narrow-minded attitude. Instead, we should embrace season patriotism, celebrating each of the four cycles with pride. Only then can we live in a society where all seasons are seen as being created equal.
And with experts calling for an especially harsh winter this year, we have a long way to go.
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

Reunited and it feels so good

I'm back.
Since graduating from the University of Western Ontario 16 months ago, I embarked on a journalism ­odyssey that took me across southwestern Ontario and to the other side of the globe.
But now I'm finally home.
After all, it was a love of my community that led me down my current career path. Unfortunately, after finishing school, working in London wasn't an option. So I set sail on a reporting odyssey, featuring stints at a daily newspaper in Sarnia, a semi-daily paper in Fiji, a weekly publication in Chatham, then back to Sarnia again before I finally landed in my favoured Forest City on Sept. 7.
Unlike Odysseus, I didn't encounter enchanting Sirens or six-headed monsters along the way, but I did run into plenty of obstacles of my own. From government censors in Fiji to a mind-dulling two-hour daily commute to the Chemical Valley, my journalism journey was bumpy one at times.
But throughout the whole ordeal, the unforgettable words of wisdom of the terminator … I mean, Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, echoed in my mind: "I'll be back."
I just hoped my odyssey would be slightly shorter than Odysseus' ten-year expedition. After all, I had a Penelope (though much less patient) of my own to get home to, plus I was eager to start writing about my community again.
Now, here I am.
Again, I differ from Homer's Greek hero because, now home, I don't plan to slay any villains, build a shrine or rule any countries. I'll be far too busy delivering the news to my fellow citizens.
And is there a better time to be a reporter in London?
The fall is a season of changes, full of fresh stories – from a heated municipal election to thousands of students heading back to the classroom to a never-ending stream of interesting occurrences in need of telling.
The pen is truly mightier than the sword – maybe had Odysseus ­realized this, his odyssey might have been a little shorter.
Don't get me wrong, I loved the last 16 months of meeting new people, living in a foreign country and being a part of some great newsrooms. But in the words of another famous ­protagonist who just wanted to return to her community, "There's no place like home."