Before You Hit “Post,” Read It One More Time

We’ve all done it.

You type a text message too quickly, hit send, and only then notice that your phone has transformed “there” into “their” or decided that “duck” wasn’t the word you intended. It happens. Most people laugh it off and move on. Another writer friend and I joke that we don’t need perfect grammar, spelling, etc., in private messages.

A business, however, doesn’t get the same luxury.

The other day I came across a Facebook post from a company promoting its services. In just two short sentences, I counted multiple spelling, grammar, punctuation, and capitalization mistakes. The message itself was perfectly reasonable. The execution was not. The Facebook post is below:

“Were ontarios largest marine recyclers and are zoned for it, we dont do it out of a backyard near farmers fields. If you have a boat you need to dispose of, do it properly by bringing it to the proffessionals!”

Ugh. It made me wonder: did nobody read this before it went online?

“Were”“We’re” (missing apostrophe; contraction for “we are”) “ontarios”“Ontario’s” (needs a capital “O” and an apostrophe to show possession) “dont”“don’t” (missing apostrophe) “farmers fields”“farmers’ fields” (plural possessive, assuming multiple farmers) “proffessionals”“professionals” (misspelled) Comma splice/run-on sentence after “it” (“…zoned for it, we don’t…”). It should be separated with a period, semicolon, or conjunction.

Every business spends time worrying about its image. They invest in logos, websites, signage, advertising and social media. Yet one poorly written Facebook post can undermine all of that. Fair or not, customers notice these things. If a company appears careless with its own marketing, some people naturally wonder where else that lack of attention to detail shows up.

This isn’t about expecting perfection. Everyone makes mistakes. Even professional writers occasionally miss one despite proofreading several times. That’s why newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses have editors. A second set of eyes catches what the first one misses.

The bigger problem is when nobody seems to have looked at it at all.

Spell-check and grammar checkers are everywhere. Better yet, ask someone else in the office to read it before you publish. Do it in Microsoft Word or Google Docs first (it will catch things) before you post it on Facebook. It takes a couple of minutes and can save you from looking unprofessional in front of thousands of potential customers.

If writing isn’t your strength, that’s perfectly okay. Running a marina, repairing engines, selling furniture, or baking bread doesn’t require a degree in journalism. But if you’re using words to represent your business, those words matter.

Hire a freelance writer if you post regularly. Ask an employee who enjoys writing to look things over. Use AI as a proofreading tool. There are plenty of options that cost little – or nothing at all.

The goal isn’t literary greatness. It’s credibility.

When I see obvious mistakes in a business post, I spend more time noticing the errors than the message. That’s the opposite of what good communication should do. Your audience should remember what you offer, not wonder whether “we’re” needs an apostrophe.

Before you hit “Post,” do yourself one favor. Read it. Then read it again. If possible, let someone else read it too. Those extra three minutes may be the cheapest investment you’ll ever make in your company’s reputation.

The Self-Appointed Storm Broadcaster and Boss

Summer thunderstorms aren’t exactly a new invention; they’ve been around since time began.

I was sitting at my usual hangout recently when the sky opened up. Heavy rain and thunder with several flashes of lightning. Then the power goes out.

It’s pretty standard stuff for an Ontario, Canada summer with three or four thunderstorms rumbling through from April through September. They break the stifling heat and humidity, and what follows are more pleasant but still hot summer temperatures. Most of the time the power stays on but on this occasion it didn’t. 

What wasn’t standard was what happened inside. Within seconds, one person appointed themselves the building’s official storm broadcaster and boss – and I mean broadcaster, as in loud – and no one asked for it. 

“It’s really coming down now!” Yeah, we can see it too. 

“Look at it come down on this side of the restaurant!” Uh, huh. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a separate weather system on the other side of the restaurant. 

“Look at that lightning!” Yes, it’s lightning. It usually happens during thunderstorms. 

“The power just went out.” We know, we’re here too. 

“It’s supposed to last another two hours.” Thanks for the update we can all get via the weather apps on our phones. Yes, believe it or not, we have phones, too. 

“I think it’s slowing down.” Was the fact that it is slowing down your first clue?

“My sister just texted. She doesn’t have power either.” Why are you telling the restaurant this? Your sister lives near Ottawa – 150 miles away. 

Every update was delivered loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear.

The commentary wasn’t providing information. It was simply narrating what everyone else was already experiencing. 

The person even had the audacity to start telling the staff what they should be doing. I couldn’t help but think, “Last I checked, there is the manager and assistant manager on duty; they’ve been through this before and are well-trained with at least fifteen years of restaurant management experience between them.” This one self-appointed boss was a regional manager at a fast-food chain that the other regulars have been reminded of oh so many times, so naturally her authority extended to this pub-style restaurant. Uh, you have no authority here, and you’re not dealing with a bunch of 16-year-old kids at their first job; you are dealing with industry veterans and probably pissing them off, so zip it. 

The people responsible for handling the situation were…handling the situation.

Then came my favorite line of the afternoon.

“Welcome to Buckhorn!”

Really? Because I’m fairly certain thunderstorms aren’t unique to Buckhorn, Ontario. I’m also reasonably sure temporary power outages aren’t some quaint local tradition found nowhere else on the planet. 

Surely we’ve all lived through enough thunderstorms to know how this works. The rain, thunder, lightning, and strong winds come, and sometimes the power goes out for a few hours. You wait out the storm or make payment arrangements in the restaurant (if there is still no power) and head home. 

Growing up, nobody felt the need to provide a live weather broadcast every thirty seconds. You watched the rain from the porch or inside, maybe counted the seconds between lightning and thunder, and got on with life.

Now everyone has six weather apps, radar imagery, notifications, and an irresistible urge to announce every observation.

At one point, I realized the thunderstorm wasn’t even the loudest thing anymore. The megaphone mouth was. It took everything I had not to say, “Will you shut up!” and “You’re the same age as I am; is this your first thunderstorm and power outage?”

Now, to be fair, not everyone was the same. The fellow sitting beside me spent most of the storm quietly asking questions that I sometimes, unseen to him, rolled my eyes at but answered politely while thinking of smart-ass answers. 

“Did it rain here last night?” You mean inside the restaurant? You live in the same town; what do you think? 

“How long did it last?” I didn’t time it. 

“How long do you think this one will last?” As long as it does. 

At least he was soft-spoken.

Next time I’ll be prepared.

“Wednesday’s storm lasted 78 minutes and left about seven millimeters of rain. Today’s cell appears to be tracking slightly longer, but I’ll continue monitoring the situation and provide updates every five minutes.”

If we’re going to do play-by-play, we might as well commit to it.

Eventually I’d had enough. Not because of the storm that was moving away from the area, but because of the soundtrack.

I quietly gathered my things and headed home with a mild headache, opened a window, and waited for the weather to do what summer thunderstorms have always done. Pass. The power came back on, and life returned to normal. 

If the conversation and commentating in that room was any indication, social media was probably already filled with photos of dark clouds, screenshots of radar maps, and urgent reports that, yes, it’s raining and the power is out on Maple Street.

Thanks for the update.

You’re Not Back Home So Stop Acting Like It

One travel memory that makes me smile doesn’t involve a beach, a famous attraction, or even a great meal.

It involved a conversation at the next table.

I was on vacation in Cozumel, Mexico,  enjoying dinner when a woman at a nearby table started complaining about how long everything was taking. The service wasn’t moving at the pace she was used to back home, and she finally blurted out, “This wouldn’t happen in America.”

Before anyone else could respond, and geographical knowledge aside (Mexico is, after all, part of the Americas continent), one of her own tablemates looked at her and calmly said, “Well, we’re in Mexico. You adapt to their customs, not the other way around.”

That ended the discussion rather quickly. I’ve never forgotten it because I think it perfectly captures what travel is supposed to be about.

Why do we travel? Isn’t it to experience something different?

If I wanted everything to be exactly like home, I’d stay home. The food should be different in the country I am visiting. The pace and the traditions should be different. That’s the entire point of travel – to relax and to experience something different. 

Yet every year you hear tourists complain because another country doesn’t operate according to the standards they’re accustomed to.

“The service is too slow.”

“They prepare food differently.”

“The stores close in the afternoon and aren’t open on Sundays”

“They don’t do things like we do back home.”

Well, yeah. You’re not back home. 

I think we sometimes forget that we’re guests and it is a privilege, not a right, to enter another country. When you visit another country, you’re stepping into someone else’s culture, not inviting them into yours. That doesn’t mean you have to like every custom you encounter. Every country has its quirks, and some things may genuinely surprise you.

But there’s a big difference between saying, “This is interesting. It’s not what I’m used to,” and declaring that the local way is somehow wrong because it doesn’t match your expectations.

The slower pace in many Caribbean countries is a perfect example. People often book tropical vacations because they’re tired of deadlines, traffic, packed schedules, and constant stress. They want to relax.

Then they arrive and become irritated because lunch takes an extra fifteen minutes.

It seems a little contradictory.

You’ve escaped your hectic routine, only to spend your vacation complaining that life isn’t moving fast enough.

I’ve noticed the same thing closer to home.

Every summer, people head to cottage country to unwind. They sit beside beautiful lakes, watch boats drift by, probably sleep in and enjoy small-town restaurants.

Then some become impatient because the patio is busy and the kitchen can’t produce meals as quickly as a downtown chain restaurant.

You’re on vacation. Slow down and enjoy the scenery. The food will arrive.

One of the best parts of traveling is realizing there isn’t just one right way to do things.

Some cultures linger over meals for hours while others eat quickly and socialize afterward. Some countries value speed and efficiency, and others place greater emphasis on conversation and relationships.

Neither approach is automatically better. They’re simply different.

Of course, there’s a difference between respecting another culture and accepting poor service. If your order is forgotten completely or the meal is prepared incorrectly, that’s a legitimate issue no matter where you are.

But if your biggest complaint is that another country or region doesn’t function exactly like yours, the problem isn’t the country or the region. It is your expectations. Travel has a wonderful way of reminding us that our normal isn’t everyone’s normal.

That’s something to celebrate, not criticize. After all, the world would be a pretty boring place if every destination felt exactly like the one you had just left.

September 1 Is When Summer Suddenly Feels Different

There is something about September 1 in Southern Ontario – and I’m sure in much of the northern USA and the rest of Canada – that happens every year.

It can be 78 degrees outside. The trees are still green. You can be wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The forecast might even call for another stretch of high-70s temperatures.

And yet, somehow, it feels different.

I noticed it again this year on the last afternoon of August. After spending nearly two days mostly inside working (Yeah, I got stuck working all day Sunday), I finally decided I had to get out of the house Monday afternoon because I was getting cabin fever. It was warm outside, but overcast and rainy – which seems to be almost an annual August 31/September 1 tradition around here.

It occurred to me that Mother Nature was providing a little preview: Here’s what the next several months are going to look like – she seemed to be saying – so buckle up because it’s all downhill from here.

We’re just giving you the warm version today.

Of course, there is absolutely nothing meteorologically significant about flipping a calendar page. Nature doesn’t know it’s September 1. A cold front doesn’t arrive at midnight because August has expired. 

But psychologically? September 1 is enormous.

August 31 is summer. September 1 is…well, technically summer, and it will be officially for another three weeks, but we’re starting to negotiate the terms of its departure.

Suddenly you notice things you weren’t paying much attention to a few weeks earlier.

It’s getting dark earlier and the evenings are cooler. The sun isn’t as high in the sky or as intense. You may start seeing the first few leaves changing color.

NFL football is back. US Open tennis is on, the baseball playoff races are heating up, and Labor Day is approaching. Cottage weekends become something to squeeze in rather than something seemingly stretching endlessly ahead. No one comes up here for a week or two anymore. The whole town feels different. Even a beautiful warm day feels different.

We can get some spectacular September weather in Southern Ontario. Sometimes October isn’t bad either. There can be afternoons of 75 or even 85 degrees when you’re sitting outside wondering what all the fuss was about.

But those days somehow feel borrowed.

An 86-degree day in May feels like the beginning of something. There are months of summer ahead.

An 85-degree day in late September feels like somebody at the weather office made an accounting error, and we’d better enjoy it before they notice.

Maybe that’s what September really changes: our relationship with good weather.

In June, we expect it, but as the days roll on in September, we’re grateful for it.

And somewhere around this time of year, I also start thinking about vitamin D and my SAD light again. The bottles come out, my SAD lamp comes out of the box again, and I remember what happened last year when winter seemed reluctant to surrender even as the calendar moved well into spring. I also remember that I inexplicably didn’t take Vitamin D or use my lamp until January – far later than normal and far too late for the benefits to kick in fully. 

It is also demoralizing to reach May and still wonder when it’s actually going to get consistently warm. That was the story of May 2026 until we hit the long weekend three weeks in. Screw you, El Niño, El Nina, or whoever was responsible for that weather anomaly. 

November? Fine. We knew what we signed up for.

January? It’s Canada. Nobody is expecting patio weather. We know we will get clobbered by deep cold or gray skies – or both one right after the other. 

February? Awful, but we’re grinding through it and the days are noticeably longer and brighter – though they are still cold, with probably one or more of those winter cold warnings popping up all over the place. 

March? Surely we’re almost there. 

April? Any day now.

May? It can be 42 degrees one day and 82 the next, then maybe 53, and then two days later it hits 80 again. Then four days of rain.

Which brings me to the question I seem to ask myself with increasing seriousness:

Why the heck do I still spend full winters here?

I don’t have livestock to tend. Nobody needs me to remain on the homestead guarding the greenhouses. I work remotely and have no office to go into any day of the week.

There are airplanes. There is Wi-Fi.

There are places where December through February do not involve scraping ice off things.

And it’s not as though I’ve been regularly escaping winter for a week or two. I haven’t gone south in winter for even a week since February 2019. COVID and life circumstances got in the way.

But maybe the next time I go, I won’t bother with a week or two. Maybe it’ll be a month. Or two, or even three. 

Long enough that it isn’t really a vacation at all – just life somewhere warmer while Southern Ontario does what Southern Ontario does.

Two weeks in the sun is wonderful, but there is a cruel streak to it. You spend the first couple of days decompressing, finally get accustomed to sunshine and warmth, and then it’s time to fly home before you know it. I remember one year coming back from two weeks in Phoenix. Our flight was closing in on Toronto and the sky was crystal clear. Then I remembered that we were still above the gray clouds. Talk about deflating. 

A month or two would be different. I could and would still work. I could still write. I could still have perfectly ordinary Friday afternoons when nothing particularly interesting happens. Except at the end of the workday, I could walk outside into 85 degrees instead of 14 degrees and a wind chill.

Every year I think about doing it, and every September Southern Ontario starts presenting its case for why I finally should. It begins gently. A warm but gray August 31. A slightly cooler evening and the sunset arriving noticeably earlier. Nothing alarming. Just little reminders of what’s ahead.

I’m convinced that’s why September 1 feels so different, even when the thermometer says it shouldn’t.

Summer isn’t over. There are beautiful days ahead, leaves to change, warm afternoons to enjoy, and probably at least one stretch when we’ll complain that it’s too hot.

But September 1 changes things. June says summer is coming and September says winter is coming. And every year, right about now, and especially as things have seemingly stabilized for the most part, I wonder why I keep spending the entire winter here.

More and more, I can’t come up with a particularly good answer.

What Does the Sign Say?

I was sitting at a picnic table outside the local convenience store, enjoying a coffee and the lake view while also watching the steady parade of summer visitors. Beside the store is a small cabin where they sell live bait and all sorts of fishing paraphernalia.

Well…sort of.

The cabin isn’t actually staffed. If you want bait, there’s a sign on the door.

Actually, there are two signs. Both say exactly the same thing:

“Please ask for assistance in the main store.”

Simple enough. Or so I thought.

In the half hour I was sitting there, three different people walked up to the cabin. Each one grabbed the locked door handle. Each one looked confused. Then each one turned to me.

“Do you know if anyone’s here?”

I smiled and said, “I don’t work here, but you’ll have to ask inside the main store.”

They thanked me and headed over. Now, I don’t mind helping people. What made me smile wasn’t that they asked me. It was that the answer was literally on the door they had just tried to open. Twice.

It reminded me of something I’ve noticed more and more over the years. People don’t read signs.

Restaurants have giant signs saying, “Please Wait to Be Seated.” People walk right past them. Stores have arrows showing which door is the entrance and which is the exit. Someone inevitably pushes against the wrong one. Construction crews put up “Sidewalk Closed” signs. People step around the barricade and keep going anyway. 

It’s almost as if our brains have decided signs are part of the wallpaper. We’re so focused on where we’re going that we stop noticing the information that’s been put there specifically to help us.

Maybe it’s because we’re all distracted and looking at our phones. Or it could be something else. 

Whatever the reason, it’s amazing how often the answer to our question is already sitting right in front of us.

The funny part is that most of these signs aren’t trying to tell us what not to do. They’re trying to make life easier. The restaurant host wants to seat people in an organized way so servers know who’s in their section.

The bait shop wants someone to unlock the cabin for you. The store’s entrance sign is trying to prevent people from bumping into each other. They’re not there to boss people around. They’re there because somebody, somewhere, learned through experience that if the sign wasn’t there, chaos usually followed.

Of course, as this little episode reminded me, sometimes even the sign isn’t enough.

There’s a broader lesson here, too. How often do we miss obvious things because we’re moving too quickly? How often do we ask questions before taking ten seconds to look around? How often is the answer already there if we simply stop long enough to notice it?

Life has become incredibly noisy and busy. Perhaps that’s why something as simple as reading a sign has quietly become harder than it should be.

As I sat there watching another customer head toward the bait cabin, I found myself wondering what would happen next. Sure enough…Door handle. Locked. Confused expression. Then the familiar question.

“Do you know where I get bait?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“The sign says go inside for help.”

Kyle Shanahan’s Refreshing Lesson in Accountability

Kyle Shanahan’s accident report was recently released, and it got me thinking about the bigger picture. 

It’s not often a celebrity or high-profile sports figure makes a mistake and immediately says, “That was my fault.”

No blaming the weather or pointing fingers at the other driver. No carefully crafted statement written by a team of lawyers and public relations experts.

Just this: I screwed up.

San Francisco 49ers head coach Kyle Shanahan took full responsibility for a July car crash that left him with a concussion, broken ribs, a broken nose, a broken hand, and dozens of stitches. The accident happened because he reached down to retrieve a phone that had fallen between the seats. In those few seconds, his truck drifted into oncoming traffic.

He didn’t have to admit that publicly.

In fact, early reports suggested the other driver may have been responsible. Many people in Shanahan’s position could have stayed silent and let the misunderstanding continue. Instead, he spoke up because he didn’t want a young woman to carry the blame or get lambasted in social media for something he had done.

That deserves respect.

Notice what he didn’t do: He didn’t say everyone drops their phone or argue that it was only a split-second distraction. He didn’t complain about modern vehicles or poor road design. He didn’t make excuses.

He simply accepted responsibility. There is a lesson here that goes well beyond football.

Distracted driving doesn’t always mean someone is texting, watching videos, or scrolling social media. Sometimes it’s something that seems completely harmless. A phone slips off the seat. A cup of coffee spills or sunglasses fall onto the floor. You reach for something without thinking.

For those two or three seconds, you’re no longer driving. At highway speeds, that’s hundreds of feet traveled essentially blind.

Most of us have probably been tempted to do – or actually did – exactly what Shanahan did. We hear the phone hit the floor and think, “I’ll just grab it quickly.”

The problem is that “quickly” can change lives forever. In Shanahan’s case, he was fortunate. He suffered several injuries but survived. The other driver escaped serious injury. It could have been much worse.

That’s why his honesty matters. Owning a mistake doesn’t erase the consequences. It doesn’t heal broken bones or repair damaged vehicles. But it does acknowledge reality, and that’s becoming surprisingly rare.

We live in an era where responsibility often comes with an asterisk.

“I’m sorry, but…”

“I apologize to anyone I offended.” Huh? 

“It wasn’t entirely my fault.”

“I was under a lot of pressure.”

“The circumstances…”

Sometimes there are legitimate explanations and sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes the right response is simply, “I made a bad decision.”

Imagine how much easier life would be if more people did that. Businesses. Athletes. Politicians. Celebrities. Even the rest of us in everyday life.

We all make mistakes. The real measure of character isn’t avoiding every one of them. It’s what we do after they happen.

Kyle Shanahan’s story is ultimately less about football than it is about accountability. He made a dangerous mistake. He admitted it and accepted the consequences without trying to soften them.

That’s a lesson worth remembering. And the next time your phone slides off the passenger seat while you’re driving or your phone rings or buzzes with a text? Leave it until you arrive at your destination. 

The Sign Isn’t There to Decorate the Entrance

There’s a little ritual that plays out almost every time I’m at my local hangout – and it gets worse when the tourists show up. 

It starts with two signs. One is a sandwich board outside. The other sits right where the host usually stands. Both say exactly the same thing in large, impossible-to-miss letters:

Please Wait to Be Seated.

And yet, almost every time I’ve been there this summer, at least one group strolls right past both of them.

They head straight to the patio, find a table, sit down and then start looking around as if they’re wondering why no one has come over to greet them. Sometimes they wait patiently. Sometimes they start waving at a server. Occasionally, you can almost see the frustration building because they think they’ve been forgotten.

Maybe this bothers me more than it should because I used to work in restaurants, and I’ve gotten to know many of the staff over the past couple of years and a few stayed with the place when it changed owners and underwent a name change and redesign. I’ve watched them work during quiet afternoons in the winter and packed summer days. I’ve seen the organized chaos that keeps a busy restaurant running, and I’ve come to appreciate something most customers never notice.

Restaurants have a rhythm. The host isn’t standing at the front because it’s some old-fashioned tradition. They’re the traffic controller. Every table that comes through that front door is assigned for a reason. One server might have just been sat with a party of eight. Another may have food coming up for three different tables. Someone else might be ready for another group. The host knows all of that. 

When people bypass the host and take their own seats, that rhythm gets disrupted. Seriously, how many restaurants, aside from the quick-serve ones, do you know where people can sit wherever they want – unless they are told they can. 

The server assigned to that section may not even realize someone is sitting there. Another server might assume someone else has already greeted them. Five or ten minutes pass before anyone notices, and suddenly it’s the restaurant’s fault that service was slow.

Except it wasn’t. The system was working exactly as it was designed until someone decided the rules didn’t apply to them. 

I’ve never understood it. If a place has signs saying “Please Wait to Be Seated,” why assume they don’t mean you? They’re not decorative. They’re not suggestions. Their instructions are designed to make everything work more smoothly – for the staff and for the customers. I’m sure you have waited for a restaurant table before and you will do so again.

It’s the same at this place with another sign that makes me smile or maybe a bit angry. 

The patio entrance has large signs asking customers to enter through the main door. They’re hard to miss. The patio access is blocked off for a reason. Yet every so often, someone ducks around the sign anyway. Again, I find myself wondering what goes through their mind. Do they think the rule is for everyone else?

Or do they simply not notice? I’m thinking they do notice they just don’t want to wait, so they squeeze around the sign or jump the border lights that separate the restaurant patio from a public area. 

We’re all guilty of operating on autopilot sometimes. We’re thinking about meeting friends, ordering lunch or escaping the heat. It’s easy to miss things when we’re focused on ourselves. But I’ve also noticed that the people who work in restaurants spend most of their day focused on everyone else.

Servers are constantly scanning their sections without looking like they’re scanning. They’re watching drink levels, checking whether food has arrived, noticing who needs the bill, remembering allergies, timing appetizers and entrées, answering questions, clearing plates and somehow keeping a smile on their face through it all.

The host is doing the same thing on a larger scale, quietly directing traffic so the dining room and patio don’t become a disorganized mess. When customers ignore the system, it creates work that never needed to exist – and yet these customers are the first to complain about the slow service. 

It’s a small thing, but small things add up over the course of a busy shift. The older I get, the more I notice work that often goes unseen: The bartender who remembers regulars’ orders before they’re spoken and the server who somehow keeps six tables happy at once, the cooks working behind the scenes while everyone compliments the meal but never sees the person who prepared it. The host who quietly prevents the whole operation from turning into chaos. Most of us only notice these jobs when something goes wrong. I find myself noticing them when everything goes right.

Maybe that’s why those signs catch my eye. They’re not really about where to stand or which door to use. They’re reminders that there is a system in place, created by people who do this every single day and know what they’re doing far better than I do.

Following that system isn’t about blindly obeying a sign. It’s about respecting the people behind it.

So, to those who don’t think the rules apply to them or bring their big city attitude to cottage country, just stop for a moment, read the sign, and wait to be seated. You can do it. 

The Rhythm Behind the Bar

Most people go to a restaurant or bar for the food, the drinks, or the company. So do I.

However, sometimes I spend part of my time there just watching the staff work. Not in a creepy way where I hit on them or leer at them when their backs are to me. I don’t. And not in a “gotcha” way where I’m looking for mistakes. Quite the opposite.

I find it fascinating to watch skilled people doing what they do well.The other day, I spent a few hours at a lakeside patio. I wasn’t in a hurry. I had nowhere else to be. As I sat there watching the afternoon unfold, I found myself paying less attention to the customers and more attention to the bartenders and servers.

Most customers see only their own experience. They see whether their drink arrives quickly, whether their meal is hot, and how long they’ve been waiting for the bill. What they don’t see is everything happening around them. The bartender isn’t simply pouring drinks. He’s keeping track of open tabs, remembering who ordered what, watching for empty glasses, chatting with regulars, coordinating with servers, and somehow knowing who is next despite three people waiting at the bar.

The servers are doing something similar. One table needs another round of drinks. Another is ready to order. A third wants the bill. A fourth has questions about the menu. The kitchen is calling for food pickup. New customers are arriving at the host stand. All of this is happening simultaneously. Yet the best servers make it look effortless.

What struck me wasn’t just how hard they were working. It was the rhythm of it all. Everyone seemed to know where to be. They moved around one another, almost like dancers performing a routine they had practiced hundreds of times.

There were no dramatic moments or collisions. No panic. Just a steady flow of activity that somehow kept everything moving. At one point, I mentioned this to the bartender. His response surprised me. He told me he actually enjoys it when things get busy because he gets an adrenaline rush. A lot of people would hear that and think he’s crazy. Why would anyone enjoy a room full of customers wanting drinks, food, attention, and service all at the same time?

Then I thought about it. The same thing happens in many professions. Newsroom editors thrive on deadlines. Sports photographers often come alive during the biggest moments of a tournament. Broadcasters love the excitement of a live event. Some people don’t simply tolerate controlled chaos. They thrive on it. When everything speeds up, their focus sharpens. The outside world disappears. They enter a zone where instinct, experience, and skill take over. To an observer, it looks stressful. To them, it feels energizing.

That may be why I enjoy watching people work, although being an inquisitive writer is also part of it, as is my natural curiosity.

There is something satisfying about seeing competence in action. In a world where so many interactions are automated, rushed, or hidden behind screens, there is still something impressive about watching people do their jobs well. The customers may never notice the dozens of small decisions made during a shift. They may never appreciate how many moving parts are involved in getting food and drinks to the right place at the right time. But if you sit quietly long enough and simply watch, you begin to see it. You see the rhythm and the teamwork. You see the experience behind the smiles and casual conversations. Most importantly, you gain a new appreciation for the work of people whose contributions are often taken for granted.

The next time you’re sitting on a patio enjoying a meal or a drink, take a moment to look beyond your own table. Watch the staff and the flow. Watch the choreography. You might discover that one of the most interesting things on the menu isn’t the food at all. It’s the people working behind the scenes to make the whole experience happen.

The Faucet That Didn’t Work

The other morning, I turned on the tap and nothing happened.

No water. No shower. No shaving. No brushing my teeth. No flushing the toilet. Ugh. Suddenly, my comfortable little home in the Kawarthas felt a lot more like a rustic campsite.

Apparently, the water system was being shut down for maintenance. It happens from time to time around here. One of the realities of living in cottage country is that you occasionally discover just how much of modern life depends on something you rarely think about until it’s gone.

Fortunately, I had filled a couple of two-liter water bottles the night before. Pure luck. I also had some leftover coffee from yesterday that could be reheated. Not ideal, perhaps, but when the alternative is no coffee at all, yesterday’s coffee starts looking pretty good.

So there I was, sitting at home working, rationing water as if I were preparing for an expedition into the wilderness rather than a typical Wednesday morning.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, a blog idea appeared. That’s usually how it happens. Not when I’m staring at a blank screen, telling myself I need something to write about, or when I am searching through a news feed looking for inspiration. Neither does it happen when I try to force it. 

The ideas almost always arrive when I’m busy doing something else. I’ve noticed this pattern for years. A walk by the lake becomes a reflection on why people are drawn to water. A couple of loud patrons at a restaurant turns into a piece about public behavior. Watching bartenders and servers work through a busy evening or weekend becomes a story about rhythm, routine and professionalism. Tourists taking photos of places I pass every day becomes a reflection on the difference between visiting somewhere and actually living there.

None of those moments arrived with a flashing sign that said, “Future blog post.” At the time, they were just ordinary moments with the meaning showing up later. 

I think that’s because writing, at least the kind of writing I enjoy most, isn’t really about ideas. It’s about observation. The world is constantly handing us material. Most of us just don’t notice it because we’re too busy looking for something bigger.

We think inspiration should arrive like a lightning bolt. Sometimes it does but way more often than not, it arrives disguised as a broken faucet. 

When I first started writing all those years ago, aside from corporate writing that has to follow a certain style, I assumed successful writers sat down every day and generated brilliant ideas on command. After all, that’s what professionals do, right? The longer I’ve been doing this, the less I believe that, because the best ideas tend to sneak up on you: they arrive while you are people-watching, walking, going to the gym, waiting for a corporate assignment, and just living your life without trying to document it.  

That’s one reason I enjoy writing slice-of-life pieces so much. They force me to pay attention. The world becomes more interesting when you’re looking for stories rather than headlines. And at the same time, you are just being. 

A noisy dam separating two lakes prompts a thought about why people find water calming, even though it’s often loud. A group of tourists photographing a local landmark becomes a reminder that people travel hundreds of kilometers to see what you see every day. A water outage becomes an appreciation of modern plumbing and a lesson about creativity.

It’s not exactly the sort of thing they teach in journalism school, but it’s true.

Some of my favorite pieces began with the smallest observations. The challenge isn’t finding ideas; it is noticing them. That’s why I don’t worry when I don’t have anything to write about at the moment.  Experience has taught me that several ideas are already on their way.

Maybe it’ll come from overhearing a conversation on a patio or watching a guy fish on a boat on a lake. It may happen while I’m grocery shopping or seeing a car drive by. Or maybe, like the other day, it’ll appear while standing in front of a faucet that refuses to cooperate. The water eventually came back on. I took my shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, and forgot all about the inconvenience.

But the idea it sparked will stick around a little longer. It is funny how that works. 

Sometimes the most ordinary moments end up giving us stories. And sometimes all it takes is a morning without running water to remind us that inspiration tends to show up when we’re not looking for it.

Why One Person Talking Drives Me Crazy But a Hundred Doesn’t

There is something about human beings – or maybe it’s just me – that seems to make absolutely no sense.

Put me in a room with 100 people talking and I can work just fine. Put me near one person talking loud, and within minutes I’m wondering if duct tape is still sold by the roll and thinking, “shut the **** up.”

I first noticed this years ago while covering professional golf tournaments. The media centers at major events were often packed with reporters, photographers, broadcasters, and public relations staff. Hundreds of people would be moving around, conversations would be happening in every direction, televisions would be on, phones would be ringing, and laptop keyboards would be tapping away.

Yet somehow, I could sit down and write without a problem. The noise became part of the background. It was almost comforting in its own way. The room had a rhythm to it. Nobody expected complete silence because everyone was working. The collective hum of activity blended together into something my brain could easily ignore.

Then there is the opposite experience. Every office seems to have that one person. You know the one. The person who conducts conference calls at their desk instead of booking a meeting room.

The person whose voice somehow cuts through every other sound in the department – that person can drive me absolutely insane. The strange thing is that it often isn’t a volume issue. A crowded restaurant can be louder than a single office conversation. A sports bar can produce far more noise than one conference call.

Yet the crowd doesn’t bother me. The single voice does. I suspect the reason is that a crowd becomes background noise. Your brain recognizes that dozens of conversations are happening simultaneously and quickly decides that none of them are particularly important.

However, one voice is different. Your brain keeps trying to listen even when you don’t want to. 

Whether you like it or not, your attention keeps getting dragged away from whatever you’re trying to do. For people who work with words, that interruption feels even worse.

Writing isn’t like changing a tire or mowing a lawn. When you’re in the middle of an article, your brain is juggling facts, research structure, wording, transitions, and ideas all at once. There is a flow to it.

When somebody interrupts that flow, you don’t simply lose thirty seconds. You lose the thread. You have to find your way back.

That’s why I could sit comfortably in a golf media center with two hundred journalists around me and remain productive for hours, yet one nearby conversation in an office could make me want to relocate to another floor of the building.

The older I get, the more I realize this isn’t really about noise. It’s about attention. A crowd asks nothing of you; it simply exists. One voice demands your brain’s attention, even when you’d rather be doing something else.

So if you ever see me happily working in a busy café, airport lounge or sports bar, don’t be surprised. Just don’t sit down beside me and launch into a forty-minute monologue about your vacation plans or that your car is making an odd sound. 

At that point, the hundred strangers in the room will suddenly seem like the quiet ones.