Only On The Walters Post

By GW

I can’t help but notice how, every time there’s a big meeting down south or some high-stakes deal being made, Quebec somehow ends up sitting closer to the front of the table. This latest run to Washington is no different. There’s Dominic LeBlanc right in the thick of it, smiling for the cameras and talking trade like he’s running the whole country.

But here’s the thing — LeBlanc doesn’t even represent Quebec. He’s from New Brunswick. Yet somehow, he’s always the one keeping Quebec happy. You’d think the rest of the provinces might get a little say, seeing as how we all share the same flag and pay the same taxes.

It’s the same old political dance: Quebec gets the spotlight, the rest of us get the speech about “national unity.” Meanwhile, the West, the North, and the Atlantic provinces get to sit on the sidelines and hope someone remembers they’re part of Canada, too.

Seems to me the Liberals are so worried about losing votes in Quebec, they forget the rest of the country has a heartbeat. I guess that’s politics these days — keep the big province smiling, and the rest can wait their turn.

But I’ll tell you something: folks out here are watching. And they’re not as quiet as they used to be.

Only On The Walters Post

You know, while I was working in my shop today, the radio was on and the news came on. Carney had just cut Trudeau’s tree plan in half… two billion down to one. I shook my head. The funny thing is, I don’t think any money should have been spent on it in the first place. We’ve got hospitals that need to keep running, roads crumbling, schools crying out for repairs… but apparently, trees take priority somewhere. With that in mind, I wiped my hands on my apron, picked up a carving chisel, and smoothed the edge of a flute block, wondering how any of this made sense.

Then another story came on: Orcas hunting young great whites just for their livers. Brutal, efficient, and…. if you think about it long enough, almost funny. It reminded me of fishing at the lake last summer. I tried to reel in a bass that was too big for the boat and ended up letting it go. Thing is, Nature doesn’t care about budgets or politics… just like those Orcas. I grabbed a fine diamond file and refined the flue ramp inside the flute, shaking my head at how weird the world can be.

By midday, the radio switched to talk of something called Eurovision. They were saying maybe Canada might get an invite this time around. From what I gather, it’s a big singing contest overseas — countries sending songs to see who can outdo the other with lights, noise, and enough drama to fill a week’s worth of TV. The kind of thing folks either love or can’t sit through.

Later, there was news about Hooters going back to more modest uniforms, calling it a “re-Hooterization.” They say it’s all about bad taste. That made me grin. I remembered walking past one years ago—neon signs peeling, a waitress rolling her eyes at my corniest joke. It was a small, ridiculous moment, but it stuck with me. I picked up a sanding dowel and smoothed the bore of the flute, thinking about how simple, honest craft feels better than all the big plans and announcements on the radio.

Then—CRASH & BURN. Moms petitioning Wheel of Fortune over some innuendo. Buy a vowel, get stuffed. Funny or depressing? I’m not sure. It reminded me of my own mother, trying to keep a straight face while doing crossword puzzles that were anything but wholesome. Humanity is ridiculous and relentless. I set the flute aside and looked at the block and chambers, shaking my head at how much nonsense we put up with every day.

Evening brought more absurdity. Thieves stole $80,000 worth of whipped cream from a fridge trailer in Guelph. Alberta wants to define what makes an Alberta whiskey—not antifreeze and Clamato aged in a Stetson hat, apparently. And there’s a 30-year-old Quarter Pounder asking for donations to the Home for the McAged. Even burgers get old, I guess. I wiped sawdust off the flute, adjusted the block strap, and thought about how the world never stops piling up little ridiculous things.

By the time I shut the shop lights off, the day’s news felt like a jumble of odds and ends—trees, orcas, Eurovision jokes, whipped cream heists, neon signs, and an aging Quarter Pounder. None of it makes much sense, but it’s all just the world piling up absurdities. All you can do is shake your head, maybe laugh, maybe grumble, and then get back to finishing the flute—sanding the final ramp, tightening the block, sealing the bore, and checking its voice before the next storm.

Until next time: Keep Your Minds Open & Your Stories Alive.

Working for What’s Yours

I was at the coffee shop the other morning, and there’s this young guy sitting there with his phone… staring at it the way you do when the numbers don’t add up right. Direct deposit had just hit. You could see it in his face… doing the math, realizing half of what he worked for all week is already gone.

I never had that problem myself, not really. Grew up on a farm where what you grew was yours, what you built was yours. Later on I worked for myself, so the work and what came from it… well, that stayed with me. But I’ve been watching it happen to people my whole life. That look when they open the envelope or check their phone and see what’s left.

Someone else decided. Someone who wasn’t there with them in the cold at six in the morning, wasn’t sweating through their shirt on a late shift. Just… took it. They call it taxes, say it keeps the roads fixed and the hospitals running. Maybe it does. But the work was theirs, the hours were theirs, and somehow half the pay isn’t.

On the farm, it was different. You planted corn, you got corn. Built a fence, you had a fence. Simple as that. Nobody stood there saying, “Well, we’ll take half those fence posts before you can use them.” The work matched what you kept.

I’ve been noticing something lately with the younger people… the ones still working those jobs, still getting paychecks with half of it missing. They’re starting to figure something out.

Up here in the small towns where you can still see the northern lights on a clear night, people are doing things different. Not loud about it, just… quiet. Mrs. Henderson grows tomatoes now, trades them with the Johnsons for eggs. Old Pete fixed his barn last summer with help from half the neighborhood, and nobody sent an invoice. That young guy from the hardware store… he’s learning to can vegetables from his grandmother.

It’s not about breaking rules. It’s about remembering something that used to be common sense. When you grow something, build something, fix something with your own hands… it’s yours. All of it. The work and what comes from it. Nobody’s standing there taking half before you can even see what you made.

I don’t know what’s fair, what’s right. Those are bigger questions. But I understand why people who work hard want to hold onto something that feels like theirs. Why they want the effort to match what they get to keep.

So they’re building things again, growing things, fixing things themselves. Holding onto whatever they can.

Makes you wonder what work is really supposed to mean.

Until the next time: Keep Your Minds Open & Your Stories Alive.

“Where are we going George?” 
“Oh… I don’t know where would you like to go?”
"Well, we haven’t visited Mrs. Watson in a while, and as you know, she’s always making cookies and things."
"Yep, she does make good cookies, that’s for sure, and, since it’s such a nice day, I think you're right; we should pay her a visit. Let me grab my things!"
It didn’t take me long to get ready, and we were on our way. You know, if I had a nickel for every time I daydreamed about her cookies, I’d have enough money to buy my own bakery. The only problem with that is, I probably would’ve eaten all the inventory.
“Hey George,” do you think she will have those chocolate chip ones? You know, the ones that are so gooey that they practically melt in your mouth?’
“She usually does?” I replied, drooling a bit.  “But she is always making new kinds!”
“Well I sure hope she doesn’t make any with raisins in them. I don’t think I can handle them.”
I laughed. “You’re being a bit picky now, aren’t you?”
“Me? Picky? Never. I just know what I like, thank you very much. And it’s not like I’m asking for much. All I want is a cookie. Sheesh!
Anyway, we got on our way, and as we walked along, I couldn’t help but notice the trees were out in full leaf, and the wildflowers were bursting with color and the air was full of the scent they were giving off.
“You know, George, if I were a poet, I’d write a good one about today. Something like, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, cookies are great, and I’m quite fond of you.”
“Not bad,” I laughed. “But I think you might want to stick with your day job.”
“Day job? You mean following you around and putting up with your nonsense? Yeah, I take that pretty seriously.”
As we got near Mrs Watson's home I could smell the sweet aroma floating through the air.  “Best we hurry," I said, “as they taste even better when they are warm.”
We reached the door and I knocked and a moment later, Mrs Watson opened it saying. “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite visitors. Come on in and set a spell.”
As I stepped in I was greeted by the sight of flour, sugar and the unmistakable scent of freshly baked treats.  
Not forgetting she walked to the door and hollered out, “I made your favorite, Jennie!” turning to me with a twinkle in her eye.
“You did?”
“Yep, homemade ‘carrot’ cookies.”
“Well I’ll be darned.”
With that, Jennie got to eating, and once she finished I asked. “So how were the cookies?”
“Very tasty, I must admit, and the best part was… she didn’t put any raisins in them.”
After we had our fill and a good chat, we headed off into the sunset, enjoying Mrs. Watson’s carrot cookies.
You know, sometimes the best adventures are the ones that surprise you… carrots and all. Oh, and for those who didn’t know, Jennie was my horse, many years ago, and as for her talking?
Well, let’s just say that with a little imagination, anything’s possible.
That's the story for this week folks. If you’d like to help keep the stories coming, there’s a coffee link below. Much appreciated.
https://buymeacoffee.com/keepingnotes
In Closing, I Would Like to Wish You Well!
You can reach George Walters at: [email protected]

A Day of Sweetness

“Where are we going George?”

“Oh… I don’t know where would you like to go?”

“Well, we haven’t visited Mrs. Watson in a while, and as you know, she’s always making cookies and things.”

“Yep, she does make good cookies, that’s for sure, and, since it’s such a nice day, I think you’re right; we should pay her a visit. Let me grab my things!”

It didn’t take me long to get ready, and we were on our way. You know, if I had a nickel for every time I daydreamed about her cookies, I’d have enough money to buy my own bakery. The only problem with that is, I probably would’ve eaten all the inventory.

“Hey George,” do you think she will have those chocolate chip ones? You know, the ones that are so gooey that they practically melt in your mouth?’

“She usually does?” I replied, drooling a bit. “But she is always making new kinds!”

“Well I sure hope she doesn’t make any with raisins in them. I don’t think I can handle them.”

I laughed. “You’re being a bit picky now, aren’t you?”

“Me? Picky? Never. I just know what I like, thank you very much. And it’s not like I’m asking for much. All I want is a cookie. Sheesh!

Anyway, we got on our way, and as we walked along, I couldn’t help but notice the trees were out in full leaf, and the wildflowers were bursting with color and the air was full of the scent they were giving off.

“You know, George, if I were a poet, I’d write a good one about today. Something like, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, cookies are great, and I’m quite fond of you.”

“Not bad,” I laughed. “But I think you might want to stick with your day job.”

“Day job? You mean following you around and putting up with your nonsense? Yeah, I take that pretty seriously.”

As we got near Mrs Watson’s home I could smell the sweet aroma floating through the air. “Best we hurry,” I said, “as they taste even better when they are warm.”

We reached the door and I knocked and a moment later, Mrs Watson opened it saying. “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite visitors. Come on in and set a spell.”

As I stepped in I was greeted by the sight of flour, sugar and the unmistakable scent of freshly baked treats.

Not forgetting she walked to the door and hollered out, “I made your favorite, Jennie!” turning to me with a twinkle in her eye.

“You did?”

“Yep, homemade ‘carrot’ cookies.”

“Well I’ll be darned.”

With that, Jennie got to eating, and once she finished I asked. “So how were the cookies?”

“Very tasty, I must admit, and the best part was… she didn’t put any raisins in them.”

After we had our fill and a good chat, we headed off into the sunset, enjoying Mrs. Watson’s carrot cookies.

You know, sometimes the best adventures are the ones that surprise you… carrots and all. Oh, and for those who didn’t know, Jennie was my horse, many years ago, and as for her talking?

Well, let’s just say that with a little imagination, anything’s possible.

That’s the story for this week folks. If you’d like to help keep the stories coming, there’s a coffee link below. Much appreciated.

https://buymeacoffee.com/keepingnotes

In Closing, I Would Like to Wish You Well!

You can reach George Walters at: [email protected]