We Built the Teahouse and They Came
Words and Photos by Karen Toews
Nova Scotia
karentoews.com
It was on a winter getaway to the Alberta Canadian Rockies when my sister-in-law Ruth and I hatched the idea to open a teahouse.
I was in my mid-thirties, spinning my wheels between jobs; my children aged twelve and ten were getting self-sufficient and school was an easy five-minute walk from home. Ruth was in a similar work funk; minus children.
“Our town needs a restaurant that offers real food made from scratch and serves good coffee, including espresso coffees.”
We didn’t consider discussing this brainwave with a food service owner, therefore we didn’t get the message, “You’ll basically be creating a job for yourself where you’re the worker, the boss, the cleaner-upper. It’s all your baby.” Rather, the idea grew from a simmer to a boil as we brainstormed how we would provide tasty, fresh food that was ‘different’ than other places in town. We had experienced in our mother’s kitchens – both resourceful cooks – how nourishing food with hospitality makes people feel happy. That’s what we wanted.
We didn’t think of crafting a business plan, however sipping takeout lattés around a motel table with our husbands, the ideas kept popping and we created our next employment plan!
The menu would be small and everything on it would be fresh. We would add to the menu tea with little pots and china teacups, served with scones and heavy cream – so we could call it a teahouse. We wanted ‘a life besides work’ so business hours would be 9:00 am to 4:00 pm, Monday thru Saturday. We knew of an older building on Main Street that our construction-builder husbands could renovate into a small teahouse.
The plan intensified and felt even more right once we were back home in Wetaskiwin. Ruth knew ‘how to do books’ so she would keep track of the finances. I would be the main recipe-hunter and menu planner. We scoured sources for selling dishes, food suppliers, used kitchen equipment and dining room furniture (that’s all we could afford), and on and on.
During this energized, stimulating time Ruth became pregnant! We would have a teahouse baby to add to the mix! At any rate, we would need extra staff, and thanks to a lifetime of being involved in many circles of our community, we didn’t need to post ads for help wanted.
These were classy, sturdy bills: the back was handy for notes or recipes.
Within six months, in the spring of 1988, the coffee was hot in the pot and the door was open. We survived the first frazzling weekend: we were up and running.
We worked hard, learned ‘everything’ as we went along, even had fun. And built a solid customer base of happy people thanks to our good staff; a consistent supply of sticky cinnamon buns, orange rolls and other goodies; fresh healthy soups, salads, and bagel plates (something different for our town!) and a compatible partnership. Ruth and I rebounded from kitchen ‘disasters’ – food challenges, equipment breaking down, glass dishes falling off a shelf (a small scar on my nose remains) – we worked our scheduled shifts, covered for employees who couldn’t make it to work. Amazingly, crashes were avoided with all the traffic going through the swinging door to the kitchen, and we navigated through complaints i.e. “the orange slices taste like onions” or “I don’t like the tomato bisque as well this time”. Loyal customers came faithfully on schedule for coffee and muffins after their weekly Elderdog walk, or booked the Teahouse for special occasions.
An intimate, homey atmosphere for celebrations
We discovered it’s true: the food service business absorbed our life. After four years, other priorities were deemed more important, i.e. baby number two for Ruth and teenagers for me. We were ready for a change and we were tired.
The business was sold; Ruth and I felt honoured that some of the staff stayed with the new owners. The Teahouse changed hands again a few years later – and eventually was no longer a business.
I’m glad Ruth and I didn’t get a second opinion before we jumped all-in. I learned that with the right helpers – in this case my partner Ruth and my life-partner Derryl – I could tackle a huge unknown, and by investing money, hard work and personality I could make it happen. Yes, my two children got sick of eating leftover soup; and I will pass on cheesecake forever. That’s what happens when you rotate with a cheesecake of the week and there are leftovers! However my oldest child, Renee, learned how to use the commercial dishwasher, to serve and clear tables, to earn spending money – with tips!
No longer a Teahouse, but memories remain intact. Photo: Dec/2022
It was a good season; the people – the friends – who worked with and for us helped make it that way. We are spread out across the country (Canada), and rarely or never see each other. Yet in 2021 we joined the Covid-lockdown isolation trend to have our first reunion ever, online. Our teahouse stories and the laughter and appreciation for each other manifested what faithful and committed friends I have.
Thanks to the adventure of starting a teahouse.
My Career As an Altar Boy
By Gerry Turcotte
Vancouver, B.C.
When I turned nine, I became an altar boy at the local church. I remember the lovely uniform I got to wear and the exquisite smell of the incense in the change rooms. On my first day, the priest explained that I would lead the procession out into the church, carrying the gold crucifix on a long silver pole. ‘Hold it up proudly’, he said, but he forgot to warn me about the low archway.
I was demoted to bell ringer. ‘Don’t worry’, he said, ‘I’ll tell you when you’re meant to ring them.’
At the altar, during the most sacred ceremony on my first day of serving Mass, I looked out at the four people in the congregation. Two of these were my parents, who had fought their way through the worst snowstorm of the year to watch their son’s great triumph. They were smiling up at me, waving surreptitiously. I was about to wave back when I felt the priest’s foot poking me in the ribs. I looked up at him and he stood with the oversized host raised in his hands. He was looking up toward the ceiling, but his mouth was angled down.
‘Now, boy. Ring the bell!’ I started ringing for my life. The sound was magical. It reminded me of Christmas—of sleigh bells. I lowered my head and shut my eyes so tightly that I actually saw stars. And I rang those bells. I thought to myself, ‘No one will ever ring these as well or as loudly’.
The priest kicked me sharply in the ribs and knocked the breath out of me. ‘For goodness sake, knock it off!’ he said. I stared up at him through watery eyes. ‘But you said….’ I began.
‘Shh!’ he whispered, slipping briefly into Latin, and then, correcting himself, repeating the words in English. He nudged me again, gently this time, and I let forth with another tremendous ring of the bells that he cut short with such a sharp jab of his foot that I let out a yell. Make up your mind, I thought angrily!
Later, because of my unfamiliarity with the vestments, I found that I was the last one in the change room. The priest seemed pleased to find me there. He moved in and poked his flushed face in my vicinity. He seemed terribly uncomfortable. I watched his mouth, as he said, ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad’, and then only half understood as he explained that perhaps I wasn’t cut out for this. Years later, when I thought about this time, I wondered insecurely if I was the only altar boy ever to be fired. At the time, though, I only felt relief.
Outside the church, in the blistery winter air, my mother hugged me tightly. She was crying. ‘You were so good’, she said. ‘I’m sure you could hear those bells all over town.’
My Miraculous Start at Signpost Music
Words and Artwork by Faye Hall
Winnipeg, Manitoba
Working as an administrative assistant at Portage Avenue Church in Winnipeg, I assisted with Signpost Music’s assistant Laura to bring the Steve Bell Sons & Daughters Tour to my church. I remember thinking that Laura had a really “cool” job, and that it would be something that I could really be interested in.
I again worked with Laura to bring a concert to my church in December 2002. My dear husband Wern had recently died, so Steve Bell and his manager Dave Zeglinski thoughtfully expressed their condolences by giving me a couple of CDs – one of them Solace for Seasons of Suffering.
Steve’s band booked my church again to rehearse for the very first Symphony Sessions concert in Winnipeg. I happened to pass Dave in the foyer of the church and casually asked if they might be hiring anytime soon, since I was on the lookout for new employment possibilities.
Apparently, Dave remembered my inquiry, and Laura called from Signpost a few weeks later to see if I was still interested in a job.
Sadly, I had already resigned at the church, and was headed to a training day at Newcap Radio as an administrative assistant. However, the first day I arrived for my training, I was informed that the station had suddenly switched to become a country station and that my new job had disappeared. Shocked and stunned, I called Laura and asked her if the job at Signpost was still available.
I started my part-time position at Signpost Music in January of 2007. I re-booted my freelance advertising design business, worked at Kelly Services, and evenings as a banquet server at Rossmere Country Club to supplement my income. Those were hectic months! Fortunately, Laura moved on to new job opportunities, and I eventually became full-time at Signpost Music.
I thank God for bringing me to assist in the ministry of Steve Bell and his music. I have now become the longest-lasting employee at 15 years. I work part-time now that I am semi-retired, but am still useful yet.
Steve’s photography also inspired my own art career to begin anew. Here is a portrait I painted of some boys he photographed on a trip to Ethiopia and Bangladesh with the Canadian Foodgrains Bank:
By Charlie Grove
Prince George, B.C.
If we are here on earth to support others, then one may ask: what exactly are the others here for? The folks coming in off the streets to St. Vincent de Paul Kitchen where I volunteer are the unique, valuable, interesting components of the first step in Buddhist meditation. The earliest disciples were called “Hearers”. That is what I strive for and what my volunteering encourages in me. I know my food preparation time is helpful and supportive to others but my time there is a gift I give myself. Kindness is more than an ideological good idea. Kindness is the glue, the skill of living together. The best acts of kindness are small and anonymous, and my volunteering reminds me of this every day and I’m thankful.
But I was fortunate in my professional employment as well. I worked with and learned from students with specialized learning abilities (referred to as Special Education). I was challenged to always do better but I never felt like I was working. I put in hours studying, and creating relevant and robust individual curriculum, and completing a Masters degree – but it was never work to listen and learn from my students. I was not trying to be a sage on the stage, but rather a guide on the side. When I yearn then I learn. The profession seemed to select me as I had much to learn from my ‘teachers’, often referred to as students.
But the most pointed, poignant, profound and personal work-related story and lesson came while I was delivering The Calgary Herald in Red Deer when I was 13 years old. My best friend and a wonderful peer influence was Lee Toy. He was a gifted athlete, a top academic student, the most sincere, respectful, caring and honest person I knew. A pure role model. He often helped me deliver my papers. When my family was preparing for a two-week holiday in Victoria I trained Lee on where to pick up the papers and how to collect from the customers at the end of the month. He was very motivated to make some money and all the customers knew him. A week before my family was to leave, I took Lee in to introduce him to the manager of The Herald in Red Deer. I told the manager that Lee would be my substitute, and would do my route while I was away. As we were leaving his office, the manager asked me to wait a minute, and he closed the door behind Lee. He said that it was fine for Lee to help me and that he seemed like a good friend. But it would not be okay for him to do the route on his own while I was away. Customers would not like this. They would not want him walking up to their doors.
I had no response and no idea what was behind this conversation. I remember sweating and having a headache as I left his office. It was as if my body understood the message, but my mind did not. I kept this all to myself. After cycling home and saying goodbye to Lee, I walked into our kitchen and told Dad what had happened.
He said nothing to me except, “Let’s get into the car.”
We drove back to The Herald office. The manager was still there, and we walked into his office. Dad calmly said, “Charlie will not be delivering a single copy of the paper ever again.” He then turned around and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him, and we drove home. I knew I had witnessed something important, beautiful and everlasting in my Dad. Was I too young to be proud of my Dad? I did not think so.
By Julian Di Castri
St. Albert, Alberta
My older brother Dennis was supposed to take that summer job, it was his friend calling to see if he wanted to work as a compass man for the British Columbia Forest Service. It was the summer of 1974, I was twenty years old and had envisioned a leisure vacation frittering away my time, perhaps working odd jobs during the two months at the family home in Victoria. However, through some cosmic conspiracy, I was passed the phone and without fully processing the ramifications, I agreed to take the job starting at the beginning of June. I would catch the earliest ferry to the mainland, travel to the B.C. Forest warehouse, meet my crew, receive instruction and orientation, and then travel to some unknown camp in the wilds of British Columbia. Fear and trepidation reigned for the next five weeks!
During those weeks leading up to my departure I was haunted with all the possible disasters that would befall me in the menacing wilderness of British Columbia. I stewed in dread, wringing my hands, verbalizing to my family members how I had made a big mistake accepting this position. Images plagued me of getting lost, being mauled by grizzly bears or swept away by the raging white waters of those mountain rivers. By the end of May, my lame laments and gloom and doom predictions had pushed my family to exasperation!
Through some force beyond myself I boarded that 6 a.m. ferry to Tsawwassen. On that misty morning, with anxiety running high, I spent most of the voyage to the mainland outside on the deck, peering into the dense fog and literally praying that some calamity would strike this lumbering craft, saving me from the terrors of the wilds. Needless to say, a transcendental interruption never came to my aid!
Upon arriving at my camp in Invermere B.C., I was met by the crew of young men and women, mostly university students my age, some forestry students, and the senior management – all very warm and welcoming. Our living arrangement was shades of a MASH Unit, a veritable tent village with us sleeping four to a unit. We were transported to remote parts of the province via a fleet of Land Rovers, Zodiac boats, dirt bikes, a helicopter and a variety of pontoon planes. The food was excellent, and we hiked through spectacular virgin forests collecting data within the timber stands. By summer’s end, the crew had morphed into a tight community with strong bonds of friendship.
At that time in my life, I had not developed much of a “Spiritual Spine” so on the occasional Sunday, I would slink out of camp to attend a mass at the closest town. Despite this furtive expression of my faith, I discovered a new love and reverence for the Creator as my eyes adjusted to the splendor of nature, the awesome view from a helicopter, below a vast canopy of emerald green interrupted by sparkling blue lakes and torrents of white waterfalls cascading down the slopes of mountains. The complete silence walking through a misty, mossy old-growth forest stilled me. Living in such proximity to a diverse group of individuals broadened my social skills and acceptance of others. All the fretting back in Victoria was a distant memory as that first camp in Invermere was just the launch of four more exhilarating summers working in different camps throughout B.C.
The takeaway: in the wilderness always trust your compass; in life I’ve learned to lean in and trust my Transcendent compass!
My Circus Tent
By Ken Fast
Derwent, Alberta
Circa 1975.
I saw an ad in the Montreal Gazette, a one-day job to make twenty dollars. Cash on the spot. I was in my mid-twenties, living in Montreal and looking for some extra work. Twenty dollars wasn’t great, but some extra cash wouldn’t hurt. About three dollars an hour. I was working several jobs, mostly in music education, but it was all part-time work. Twenty dollars in those days might be something like …. a hundred and fifty dollars today? It was menial work, a no-brain way to make a few bucks.
The employer: Circus Vargas. I could help set up the big tent! A bit of a change, some excitement, I might even see some animals, maybe see the big band warming up. As a child, I had seen a circus two or three times and I remember cotton candy, glittering gold costumes, lights strobing and sweeping across the top of the tent, artists in dazzling costumes walking the high wire. Trapeze artists, happy clowns, and trained elephants. A live band with lots of blaring trumpets and trombones and their melodies and dramatic underscores filled the tent with magic. Here I would be behind the scenes for a day.
Why not?
I showed up bright and early and joined the guys, about a dozen or so.
The boss gave us the instructions:
“You will work in teams of two; set up the stands for the benches.”
Others would be raising the big poles and unfolding the big coloured canvas.
There was one more thing.
“There is a half-hour lunch break (we brought our own lunch), but if you leave and don’t finish the day, you won’t get paid.”
Fair enough. Why would anyone leave?
My co-worker and I hauled the frames to set up the benches. They were made of steel, and we assembled many of them. We carried them over the field, and then bolted them together. I don’t know what they weighed but they were very very heavy.
By noon, half the guys had taken off, cashless and very tired.
Lunch break. I stretched out my aching arms. I was not going to leave and forfeit my money.
At the end of the day I had my twenty dollars in cash.
Arriving home, my limbs felt like they were about to fall off. I drove down to the nearest drug store to find muscle balm. I purchased several expensive creams to help soothe and relieve my pain. The bill came to…
About twenty dollars.
Behind all the drama and excitement are people who labour away for a day’s wage, people who set up the benches for the audience so they can safely sit down and enjoy the show. The unknown stars.
A Google search tells me that Circus Vargas still exists.
“Circus Vargas at its peak was using the largest circus tent, the size of a football field, which took thirty men seven hours to raise.” (Wikipedia).
There it is. I made history in Wikipedia, as one of those thirty men who worked seven hours to raise the tent.
I hope that many families in Montreal, families with children, laughed and enjoyed the show that evening, sitting on those benches. But I did not buy a ticket to see the show. And I never did see the big band warming up.
Postlude:
In 2010, Circus Vargas discontinued their animal acts.
My Amazing Past Experience
Words and Photos by Vincent Hanlon
Lethbridge, Alberta
For a number of years I have been an examiner doing English proficiency exams each October in a couple of schools in Buenos Aires. For the 10-year-old Spanish-speaking students, part of their exam involves speaking in English for 3 or 4 minutes about a significant past experience. I have tried to capture some of the characteristics of their collective style in writing about “my amazing past experience.”
Today I want to tell you about my trip to Buenos Aires.
One day my friend Grant surprised me with a most unusual question. Do you want to go to Buenos Aires? At first, I did not know what to say. I never thought about going to Buenos Aires. So why would I want to go there now? But this cat was curious, so I said, “Yes, I want to go to Buenos Aires.”
I said, “Yes” to my friend and I’m so glad I did! For three excellent reasons.
Evita, my bike for my Buenos Aires city tour
First of all I met many beautiful people. The people of Buenos Aires are called porteños. A porteño is the resident of a port city, such as Buenos Aires. For example, I met Will Whittle, the owner of Biking Buenos Aires. He took me on a fabulous bicycle ride through the parks and plazas of Palermo and Belgrano. We visited the Rose Garden. I saw a million roses in bloom. Then we had lunch in Barrio Chino. Then we went by the house of the famous Argentine writer, Jorge Luis Borges. Sad to say, his house will be demolished and an apartment building will fill its place. That makes me want to cry.
Besides meeting many friendly people, I got to eat a lot of delicious food. I ate lots of meat — oyo de bife al punto, succulent bondiola and mouth-watering cordero. For dessert, you name it, I ate it! Dulce de leche, frutos rojos con crema, and torta chocolate. Once I even tried to eat two kilos of ice cream. It was amazing!
Sorry I don’t have time to tell you about my favourite drinks—cafe cortado, Malbec, and mate.
Last but not least, I learned many Spanish words. Listen to this:
Buon día. Que tal?
Donde está el Subte?
Vamos Rafa Nadal!
Tenemos conversación y una copa de vino.
Avenida Cabildo está muy ocupado.
And my favourite expression—Todo va muy buen, mi amigo. Speaking Spanish is my passion!
So there you have it. I said, “Yes” to my friend, Grant. I went to Buenos Aires, and thanks be to God, I did.
Now when I am in my country in Canada I think of Buenos Aires—beautiful people, exquisite food and a whole new wonderful language. Español!
In conclusion, I want to quote another friend of mine who once told me after his first
unforgettable visit to Paris, “I have found my place in the world.” I feel the same way about
Buenos Aires. Have you found your place in the world?
Mothers’ Day, in October, in Buenos Aires
Buenos Aires is one of those places I’ve considered going to — much less ambitious than, say, hiking in Patagonia, though I have no doubt Vincent Hanlon could do both.
I’m a big fan of Vincent’s prose — and photos! — in all the many places they magically appear.