Last Sunday I had to show one of my more remote listings. Another agent was showing it to his clients, but as a courtesy I said I would be there to show them the way. It is difficult to find, as it has deeded access through another property, and it doesn't have a street address, so GPS and Google Maps would be of no help. The agent and his clients were from Toronto, and  suspected they would have some difficulty with the location. I had a little bit of trouble understanding him on the phone as he had a heavy accent, but we set the time and made the appointment. I told them that I would park my car along the County Road and wait for them there.

I went to the spot a few minutes early, parked my car and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

About half and hour after the appointed time I called his cell phone, but no one picked up. I tried again in another 15 minutes, and boy, was I getting steamed. I didn't know whether I should give up or not. Ungracious thoughts came flooding through my head. Things like how the hell did this guy get his real estate license? and don't people have manners anymore? etc. etc.  The type of thoughts we all have when we are working ourselves up into a state.

My phone finally rang, the agent told me he was in Stirling and would be another 20 minutes or so. Stirling, what the eff are you doing in Stirling, that's not on your way here, you don't go through Stirling to get here from Toronto you effing clod I thought to myself. I grunted something into the phone and hung up.

I was supposed to take my son for our weekly game of pool at the pool hall, and now I'd be late. I was furious. I got out of the car and paced around, unsure of whether I should just leave and screw this guy. I looked around at where I was and decided to take a picture.

When I looked at the picture that I just took, I suddenly started to calm down. I realized that I wasn't just in the middle of nowhere waiting for people who will have made me wait for over an hour. I was on a gorgeous country road on a gorgeous late summer's day. I am fit and healthy, I can see all these sights, take in all these smells, feel the sun on my body. How many people in the world would have given their right arm just to be where I was right then and there? How many people live in squallor and would never experience anything remotely as pleasant in there entire lives? Just last week a shipload of Tamils arrived on our shores, people who could probably only have dreamed of such peace before. Here I am, living in the most free nation in the world, standing by myself in absolute peace with no-one harrassing me, not a soul in sight, soaking up the sun, and I'm angry because someone is making me wait a little.

Why do we ignore all that's good around us and place unnecessarry stress upon ourselves with these artificial deadlines and self imposed boundaries? The sun will always rise, I will always have a meal in my stomach, I will always be able to appreciate the beauty around me, yet there are times when I choose to let silly little things get in the way of all that.

As luck would have it, the people did come soon and they did see the property, I got to see the elderly grandmother take absolute delight in the flowers, trees and plants that were surrounding her, I got to see her bend over and run her hands through the soil, I saw her laugh as a frog unexpectedly hopped past her feet as she was walking. She looked as if she thought she was in paradise. I could learn a lot from her.

Today I'm getting an offer on the property. I'm glad I waited. My son? When I came to pick him up for our pool game he hadn't even noticed that I was late. I could learn a lot from him too.

I don't know how often I hear people say that foreign aid is a waste of money. People tell me that giving money to these causes is like throwing good money after bad. In a way, I can see their point. Oftentimes the money is wasted, and it does seem as if there is a never-ending list of causes. It can seem rather discouraging at times.

Well, let me tell you about something that worked.

Jhojan Camilo was one of the first children that I sponsored through World Vision. He lives in the community of EL PORVENIR SANTANDER in Columbia. This was the picture I recieved when I first sponsored him in 2000. He's a handsome little fellow, and as it turned out, quite a bright one too. He was a normal little boy, and did a lot of the things normal boys around the world do, except he didn't go to school and he couldn't read or write. Initially our communication was done through a World Vision worker in Columbia.

Last week I recieved a letter from World Vision telling me that I was no longer sponsoring Jhojan. My sponsorship was no longer needed in the community of El Porvenir Santander. Through World Vision's partnership with the community, it is now a self sufficient community, no longer in need of outside aid.

This is how World Vision works. The motto is "A hand up, not a hand out." When they go into a community they partner with the people and develop goals. The area becomes an ADP (Area Developmental Project). Typically, the goal is for World Vision to leave the area in ten to twelve years and when they do, the community will be able to stand on its own two feet.

El Porvenir Santander was a town without clean drinking water and sewage. Now it has both. Parents recieved nutritional instruction and are aware of health care practices, the children are no longer malnourished. Because of the military violence in the area, households were run by women who neither had the time or the means to send their children to school. Women were helped with this burden and those who wished to get an education were able to through programs set up by World Vision. Families who wished to establish a small business recieved micro loans. World Vision established a school where children not only learned the basics, but were able to enroll in music, theatre programs, sports and learned life skills. The boys now have options other than joining the paramilitaries or engaging in criminal activities. Farmers were given the means, education and improved strains to get much higher crop yields. This diversity in diet did wonders for the children and the community at large.

Much like the town, Jhojan flourished too. He enrolled in school, learned how to read and write. He began to write letters to me (which were translated from Spanish) and I to him. He eventually put me to shame, and began to write to me in English. He is not a little boy any more. He is an intelligent, articulate, witty and educated young man who will be attending university next year. Jhojan will pass on many of the things he has learned to the children that are coming behind him. He will be a leader in his community, and he is fully embracing the possibilities that life has to offer him.

If we could just ensure that our aid money went to programs that really helped to benefit the recipients, I am sure that there would be fewer grudging people in North America. While I no longer sponsor Jhojan financially ($35.00 a month  -  what a bargain) our relationship is not finished. We will keep in touch. I look forward to seeing what this young man will accomplish. When I really think about it, I'm not sure that Jhojan is the one who benefitted the most from our relationship.

Many teachers have been reluctant to use Facebook. The reasons for this are pretty obvious. If I were a teacher, I wouldn't want my students to know a lot of the personal details of my life (and I probably wouldn't want to know too much about theirs). Being in contact with students through a platform like Facebook could become uncomfortable for many teachers. With Facebook's atrocious record for dealing with issues of privacy many teachers refuse to sign up for an account in the first place.

A new internet venture called Teachbook has been launched for teachers. Not only is it a bit of a social network, it's also a place where teachers can share resources, lessons and many other things that could be helpful to the teaching profession. It is simply an online community for teachers, similar to many online communities that other professions have. Seems like a pretty logical thing for teachers to have in my books.

Facebook doesn't like this new venture. According to a CNN article Facebook is taking this new venture to court. Read the lawsuit here. (It's a PDF File).

Apparently Facebook objects to the new venture's use of the word "book" in their name. Since when did Facebook own the word "book"? They are alleging that Teachbook is trying to ride on their coattails. Facebook just passed the 500 million user mark (an incredible 1 in 7 people on this planet have an account), and are a universally recognized name, but does this give them the authority to prohibit others from using the word "Book" in their names? I wouldn't think that it should. After all, the word book did precede Facebook by a couple of years or so.

I think Facebook have become too big for their britches and that this is a pretty clear case of bullying.

"If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what are we to think of an empty desk?"

- Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein was known for having a very messy desk. That much I have in common with him. I clean my desk off about once a week (whether it needs it or not), but stuff just continually piles up. By the end of the week my poor laptop is squeezed into a corner beside my phone. I sometimes catch the disparaging glances of other agents who walk by my office ( I have a prime location, right beside the bathroom - I know who the loud tinklers are), and sometimes feel a little ashamed.

I decided to handle this problem the North American way. Rather than address this problem head on, I decided to find a scientific study that justifies my shortcoming so that I can feel good about myself without actually having to work on my personal weakness. Allah be praised, there have been several such studies.

Did you know;

48: Percentage of people who are "pilers" - they organize paper by piling it on their desktops.

38: Percentage of people who are "filers" - they file rather than pile, and tend to have management titles.

14: Percentage of people who are "tossers" - they keep their desks spare and uncluttered.

Source: 2005 survey by Pendaflex, a New York-based company specializing in organizational solutions.

(I was quite relieved to discover that I wasn't a tosser.)

There has actually been a book written about this subject, a 2007 publication entitled A Perfect Mess, by Eric Abrahamson and David H. Freedman. In this book they reveal why having a messy desk isn't really such a bad thing.

"Mess isn't necessarily the absence of order," Abrhamson and Freedman claim. "A messy desk can be a highly effective prioritizing and accessing system. In general, on a messy desk, the more important, urgent work tends to stay close by and near the top of the clutter, while the safely ignorable stuff tends to get buried to the bottom or near the back, which makes perfect sense. The various piles on a messy desk can represent a surprisingly sophisticated informal filing system that offer far more efficiency and flexibility than a filing cabinet could possibly provide."

 In other words, the time I save by not constantly cleaning off my desk almost compensates more than makes up for the time I spend cursing and looking for things.

I won't lie and claim that I have read the whole book, or even parts thereof ( I did read internet reviews though), it is not necessary. The mere knowledge that such a book exists validates my position and makes me proud of my messiness, after all, it's a personal filing system, not unsimilar to the one that Albert Einstein used. Next time anoher agent peers into my office on his way to the lavatory, I won't look down in shame. No, I will meet his gaze with a steely look of my own. "Tinkle away my chum, this office is the sign of a genius at work."

I woke up this morning when my radio alarm clock was blaring out some very depressing news. Last night the Trenton Golden Hawks played their first pre-season game, losing 3 - 1 to the Wellington Dukes in Junior A hockey. I'm not depressed because the Golden Hawks lost, I'm depressed that it's only the 20ieth of August and I already have to start hearing about hockey.

Already? We just finished the Stanley Cup playoffs in June. Don't get me wrong, I like hockey well enough, but this is far too early. Can't they just let us enjoy our summer? Why do we have to take a good thing and dilute it down until we are sick of it?

There is a lot of local buzz regarding the decision made by Belleville's Police Chief to come forward with allegations of domestic abuse. Terry Chenier outlines the main point quite well in his post. It was a very courageous decision, and she should be applauded for it.

I am all about supporting the local economy and getting involved with the festivals that Trenton and the surrounding communities host. Somehow though, the "water buffalo food festival" seems a little strange. I had never thought of water buffalo as one of the tastier animals this planet has to offer.

The promotional poster for this festival is a bit strange too. I wonder if the poor buffalo know that they are about to be eaten by the good citizens of the Quinte area. I will probably suspend my judgement and head on up to Stirling on Saturday, August 28 and find out for myself just how delectable a water buffalo can be. I sure hope buddy there puts on a shirt before cooking up my meal though.

I'm as sentimental as the next guy and I do enjoy inspirational quotes every now and then. The internet has, however, watered it down to the point where I'm inundated with inspiration and advice on how to lead my life. Frankly I'm tired of circulated emails that advise me to "live, love and laugh more". There seems to be a variety of ways to express the same few cloying sentiments.

I was rather dissapointed to recieve an email from someone whom I regard as sufficiently embittered enough to be a good friend of mine that contained a slideshow that had inspirational music accompanying a farewell letter written by the author Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Apparently a few years back he had been diagnosed with cancer, and had decided to mail his friends a missive as some sort of farewell gesture. It was entitled "The Puppet" and it read as follows;

If for a moment God would forget that I am a rag doll and give me a scrap of life, possibly I would not say everything that I think, but I would definitely think everything that I say.

I would value things not for how much they are worth but rather for what they mean.

I would sleep little, dream more. I know that for each minute that we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would walk when the others loiter; I would awaken when the others sleep.

I would listen when the others speak, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream.

If God would bestow on me a scrap of life, I would dress simply, I would throw myself flat under the sun, exposing not only my body but also my soul.

My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice and wait for the sun to come out. With a dream of Van Gogh I would paint on the stars a poem by Benedetti, and a song by Serrat would be my serenade to the moon.

With my tears I would water the roses, to feel the pain of their thorns and the incarnated kiss of their petals...My God, if I only had a scrap of life...

I wouldn't let a single day go by without saying to people I love, that I love them.

I would convince each woman or man that they are my favourites and I would live in love with love.

I would prove to the men how mistaken they are in thinking that they no longer fall in love when they grow old--not knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love. To a child I would give wings, but I would let him learn how to fly by himself. To the old I would teach that death comes not with old age but with forgetting. I have learned so much from you men....

I have learned that everybody wants to live at the top of the mountain without realizing that true happiness lies in the way we climb the slope.

I have learned that when a newborn first squeezes his father's finger in his tiny fist, he has caught him forever.

I have learned that a man only has the right to look down on another man when it is to help him to stand up. I have learned so many things from you, but in the end most of it will be no use because when they put me inside that suitcase, unfortunately I will be dying.

translated by Matthew Taylor and Rosa Arelis Taylor

All very nice. I was suspicious though. As someone who had waded through A Hundred Years of Solitude, which had felt like it took a hundred years to read, I felt like something was amiss. The whole bloody thing seemed like a cliche, not something that a world renowned and award winning novelist would have written. This sounds like something I can go to Dollarama and spend a hard earned dollar buying on one of those smarmy faux chalkboards. 

I was right, and it didn't take long to find out, thanks to the website Museum of Hoaxes.

You'll love this (well I did anyway); the poem was actually written by a Mexican ventriloquist named Johnny Welch (now there's a fine Mexican name) for his puppet "Mofels", ergo the title. Somehow, somebody got a hold of the poem and attributed it to the esteemed author. It had been published in newspapers and has by now made a dozen rounds of the internet with people believing these to be the farewell words of Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

So when you get this email (and inevitably you will), just remember that it's a puppet advising you to live, laugh, love, climb mountains, and water roses with your tears.

The Quinte Hotel has been around forever. It's actually called the Sherwood Forest Inn, and has been for many years, but locals still call it The Quinte Hotel, The Quinte, or simplyThe Hotel. It's not just your average small town bar because there's nothing average about it. It can actually be a scary place sometimes, and it's not uncommon for a dust-up to happen every once in a while. It's the kind of place where you have to know when to just shut your mouth and stare straight into your beer without looking sideways, a lesson I've had to learn two or three times over the years.

The great Canadian poet Al Purdy (1918 - 2000)wrote a poem entitled At the Quinte Hotelas a tribute to this mainstay of Trenton Ontario nightlife. Al Purdy was a great friend of the American writer Charles Bukowski, and their works have often been compared. Purdy was awarded the Order of Canada in 1982 for the large volume of work that he churned out during his lifetime (some of it pretty bad).

Here's a short little clip of the poem, starring Gord Downieof the band The Tragically Hip. Of all the establishments in Trenton to be immortalized, I guess the Quinte Hotel is as good a choice as any.