She didn't have any training, and her only camera was a small black box thing. She couldn't preview anything, and the rolls of film had to be packaged up and sent off to Calgary to be developed before she could see what she'd captured.  But every childhood birthday is faithfully preserved in black and white, mounted with those little corner things in an album, one each for my brother, sister and I. 

I marvel at the careful set ups she concocted, a child's table with a crocheted cover holding a cake she'd baked us, set up outside when we were little (no flash equipment in those days.)  Self-concious posing as we grew into teenagers, but always, the birthday photo. How much effort it must have cost her, three kids, no conveniences, make the cake from scratch (no cake mixes,) bake it in the wood stove, get us cleaned up, set the scene.  Dad was a coal miner, there wasn't ever much money.  She must have planned ahead carefully to afford the film.

Mom's been dead for eight years now.

It was my birthday yesterday, I was 70, such an unexpected surprise.  How'd I get here from there?

And a friend phoned, her mother is a photographer.  Could she come over and take some PR shots of me?  At first i thought, maybe not on my birthday.  And then the coincidence struck me.

"Please, do come," i said.  And when Patricia arrived, I told her about the birthday pictures.  "I think my mom must have contacted you," i said, only half joking.

"Oh, she's probably been talking to my mother," Patricia said without missing a beat.  "My mom would have loved that idea."

Patricia is an amazing photographer, a professional who fast became a beloved friend.  There wasn't any little table with a crocheted cloth, and the birthday cake came later in the day.  But I think both of us were aware there were two determined elderly ladies hovering somewhere just out of camera range, sipping celestial coffee and remarking smugly to  one another, "Coincidence, hell.  They just don't get it, do they?"

My intentions are always the best.

I plan to blog at least once a week, but the best laid plans, etc.  Somehow, life at the Blue Collar intervenes, and before I know what's happened, a month has slipped past in a daze of busy-ness.

Eventful. Crazy.  Frantic. Overwhelmed.  Does anyone else feel this way?

Sometimes I think that the quality of life gets lost in the urgent details of everyday living.  Laundry, ironing, shopping, dusting, loading and unloading the dishwasher, changing sheets--anyone who runs a busy B&B is all too familiar with the litany of chores that go on behind the friendly, peaceful facade a host hopefully presents while sharing a cup of tea and good conversation over a leisurely breakfast.  But even then, the phone is ringing, and you're keeping a watchful eye on your guest's coffee cups with an eye to refills, and an ear peeled for the toaster popping up while discussing whether or not one should ask, "What do you think?" instead of the pervasive, "What do you do?"

Ideally, there should be a houseboy (or girl) who sees to these annoying details so the host can do what he does best--engage guests in fascinating conversation.  Which is why I love reading books set in the last century, where ladies and gentlemen and fortunate guests linger over silver servers (which come to the table miraculously polished, thanks to the girl, Mary or the boy, Jim.)  Coffee refills happen with the lift of an eyebrow.  Toast is buttered and delivered magically to each guest.  If phones are invented yet, someone else answers them and discreetly conveys the message during a natural break in the scinitillating conversation.

To hell with liberation, I say.

Bring back servitude, albeit with a decent wage thrown in. 

But of course, then I couldn't afford Mary or Jim anymore than I can today.

Ahhh, lassitude, relaxation, time to think.  Time to just be.

Long time, no see.

And for an hour and a half, he drilled, dug, yarded and generally swore under his breath at my stubborn molar.  I was reduced to prayer.  "Please, God, if this is going to get any worse, just let me choke to death on the bloody rubber thing that's jammed my mouth in an open position.  I signed that release, my dentist won't get into any trouble.  And the kids can sell the house and split the money before I have a chance to run my line of credit up even higher with the bridge this hole in my mouth requires, which is going to cost in the neighborhood of a face lift, with none of the visible benefits."

But alas and alack, it wasn't my time, either for the face lift or the memorial service.  The miserable tooth gave way at last, and I staggered out to the car and drove home.

Once there, all I wanted to do was swallow a goodly number of pain pills and go to sleep for the rest of this lifetime, until I was reincarnated and in due course miraculously grew a new tooth.  But that wasn't to be, because I had guests coming. 

Now anyone who's run a B&B knows that the only response to guests is a wide smile, a perky demeanor, and a sincere enquiry into their health, their life, and their trip. Who wants a hostess with blood dripping down her chin, a swollen jaw, and eyes at half mast from the effect of drugs?  

I was in luck.  My guests were two sweet very young men who had never stayed at a B&B and obviously figured that I was the norm.  They'd just spent a long day doing electrical wiring, and they were too wiped out to notice whether or not I had an extra head. They retreated to their rooms and I crawled off to swallow more pills and go to bed.

The pain pills did their job, and by breakfast time I was human again, more or less.

The waffles turned out.

And I'm fine, thank you for asking. 

They'd attended a wedding up the Pass, and we made the arrangements for their stay on the phone--they'd be arriving late, so the back door was open, and I was asleep when they got to the Blue Collar.  

It's something like a surprise gift, having friends you haven't met before sitting around your table, enjoying pancakes and cheesy potatoes and eggs.  There isn't going to be a leisurely getting to know one another-they have to drive home to the Coast today--so the details have to be covered quickly, the package opened and the wrappings tossed aside so we get to the treasure part quickly.

How was the wedding, where do you live, what work do you do, what books do you read, where were you born?

Once that's mutually out of the way, we progress to the best stuff.

What are your dreams, what are your long term plans, hows your life going?  How did you meet, how long have you been together, how many kids do you have?  Is your life going the way you dreamed it would?

He began as a rock star and became a carpenter who plays the guitar and sings for fun.

She's a head nurse at a hospital, and she's going with a group like Doctor's Without Borders to a second world country to volunteer her gifts. She has a classically lovely face and the kindest eyes.

Their tall, handsome, gentle son is a musician.

I waved them goodbye, wishing they could stay longer.  "If you ever come this way again--"

They gave me their address.  "If ever you're nearby and want a place to stay-"

It's just the most amazing thing, meeting beloved old friends again for the first time.

In the garden at the Blue Collar, there are two rhubarb plants.  With the first signs of spring, i wait eagerly until the red stalks are long enough to pick.  My auntie Betty, who knows about these things, not only gave me the plants, but also showed me how to grasp low down near the root and tug up so nothing breaks, and the root is not damaged.  

Rhubarb is usually considered a fruit, but actually, botanically it's a vegetable, and its role down thru the centuries has been medicinal, going back 5000 years to when the Chinese used the dried roots as a laxative.

Rhubarb roots were an ingredient in numerous medicinal remedies of the ancient Greeks and Romans.  So you see, serving rhubarb is most beneficial to the proper operating of the human machine, particulary the bowels.  

So you can feel righteous when you serve your guests these for breakfast.  And if they happen to be newlyweds, or celebrating an anniversary, well, all the better.

MATRIMONIAL RHUBARB BARS

FILLING

 3 cups chpd rhubarb

1½ cups sugar

2 tbsp. cornstarch

1 tsp vanilla

Combine filling ingredients and cook until thick.  Cool completely.

CRUST

1 ½ cups rolled oats

1 ½ cups flour

½ tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp salt

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup butter

Preheat oven to 350, combine ingredients and pat 2/3 into greased 9 inch pan.  Spread filling and sprinkle with reserved crumbs.  Bake for 30-35 minutes.  Chill before cutting.

Bowels, be damned.  Tastebuds, rejoice!!

I decided to change phone companies this week.  The new service promised keeping my number wasn't an issue--a major concern because its on all my advertising.  So Wednesday morning the installer went to great trouble to bring in a new line, and by noon I could call out, although no incoming calls could connect for about an hour, he said.

He went away and I set about changing beds, washing linen, dusting--doing everything except answering the phone.

It was evening by the time it dawned on me that I hadn't had a single call.  And that my new service wasn't giving me the impeccable service they'd promised.  Nobody could call me--and the Blue Collar, like every B&B, relies on phone bookings.  I know well that tentative guests will call once, and if they can't connect, they move on down the road.

Frantic phone calls to the phone company ensued.  Each call meant that I spent a long time on hold, listening to music and gnashing my teeth at the perky canned voice that assured me my new service was dedicated to solving any problems.  I reminded myself that there's no use arguing with what is. The reality was, no one could call me, and there didn't seem a whole lot I could do about it. I finally gave up and went to bed.

Thursday, still nada, in spite of being assured the problem was being solved.  Except that it wasn't.  And a long weekend was coming, which usually meant last minute bookings.  I could feel my zen approach to what is slipping fast.

Friday morning, still no service. I asked myself what there was here for me to learn.

Patience, certainly. Acceptance?  Perserverence?  Trust?  Self control--as in not being nasty to the voice that kept assuring me the problem was being worked on?  Or just the profound realization that there are no perfect phone companies?

One last, pleading, desperate plea--and after another hour, bliss!  My phone rang.  Incoming was working.

The Blue Collar world was once again restored to harmony.

How many episodes does it take before we let go of expecting everything to go our way?

So I asked the chef who was staying at the Blue Collar where he'd trained, and he said Switzerland.  And then I asked how he was taught to make Hollandaise, the bane of my mornings--I know, there's a packet I could buy at Overwaitea, and I've resorted to it on frantic mornings when eight guests have ordered eight different things, including Eggs Benny.  

But I'd really rather make everything from scratch than rely on a packet.  I know it's a perverse streak, not rational, and certianly not practical. It just gives me satisfaction, which is no small thing.  Just think Mick Jagger. 

Anyway, my lovely chef said, "We started with a vinegar reduction."

Vinegar reduction?  Right. This, while making pancakes, frying eggs and not burning toast.  NOT.

There is another way.  Try this and fend off the compliments.

MEANWHILE HOLLANDAISE 

Melt a cup of butter, skim off white stuff.

Put 3 large egg yolks, 2 tbsp. lemon juice, a good pinch of salt and and 1 tbsp hot water in the blender container

Whiz on high, then dribble in hot butter thru the lid hole while still whizzing.

Will thicken in about a minute.

Stir in a tsp. of tarragon

Pour over poached eggs

Good on asparagus, too.

I made it and served it to the chef, and he complimented me.  But he was wildly enthusiastic about everything I served.  He said chefs are just grateful to sit down and have someone put food in front of them they haven't had to cook.

I know the feeling.

Eggs Benny.

They're on my menu, and they're the item most guests at the Blue Collar order the most times.

The problem with them is the underpinning--traditionally an English Muffin.

Did you know that bought English muffins never go bad?  I lost some at the bottom of my bread basket and a month later, THEY HADN'T GONE MOULDY!!  I had visions of a coroner doing an autopsy on some poor deceased guest 47 years down the line, shaking his head as he opened the abdominal cavity and extracted--you guessed it.  An English muffin, perfectly preserved, from Eggs Benny at the Blue Collar.  

So, knowing that things we eat need to go rotton fast--garbage in, garbage out, makes for a healthy digestion--I've started making Cornbread Scones to go under the poached eggs and ham.  Or bacon, whatever turns your crank--or whatever I happen to have on hand that morning.

This is how they go together.

CORNBREAD SCONES

(guaranteed to pass fast!)

Preheat oven to 400

Mix 3/4 cup buttermilk and 1/4 cup of cornmeal in a small bowl

In a bigger bowl, stir together 1 3/4 cups flour, 1 tbsp baking powder, 1 tbsp sugar and 3/4 tsp. salt

With pastry blender, work in 1/4 cup cold butter

Stir in 1 cup grated cheddar

Add two green onions cut up with the scissors

Whisk one egg into buttermilk mixture and add the whole mess to the flour, etc.

Mix together, make a ball, divide into two

Flatten each to about 1/2 inch, cut each into 4 triangles

Put on baking sheet and into oven for 16 minutes

Use as base for eggs benny, or if you're fed up by now with cooking, just feed the crew the scones with some fruit and call it a morning.

At the moment, there are eager mouths to feed at the Blue Collar, so this recipe for muffins is fool proof and fast.

BLUE COLLAR SCRUMPTIOUS STRAWBERRY MUFFINS

In a large bowl, combine 2 eggs, 1/2 cup vegetable oil, 3/4 cup brown sugar and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Mix in 1 1/2 cups chopped fresh strawberries

Sift in 2 cups unbleached flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder and 1/2 teaspoon salt.

Fold together softly, in time with the music.

Put in muffin pans (makes a dozen)

Bake 20-25 minutes

Good hot or cold, or leftover--there never are any left at the Blue Collar, but maybe you'll have better luck.

The other thing you can do quite successfully is make this batter up and keep it in the fridge for up to a week.  Just scoop however many muffins you want into a muffin tin and bake as above.

There's this problem with the Blue Collar's back garden.

It's not suitable for a vegetable patch--pea gravel and lots of wooden deck space, plus a big old fir tree means easy care but no kitchen garden.

So my sister told me about the hay solution.  Straw, actually, which everyone knows can be spun into gold.  Or, in this case, into a mega-producing-mini-hot-house raised garden space.

Get a bale or two of straw and lay it down lengthwise. Make sure the string is running around each bale and not on the side touching the ground.

Keep the twine there to hold it all in place and if it does rot, bang some stakes in at both ends, or chock up the ends with something heavyish, like rocks, bricks, boxes or plant containers.

Aged bales of about 6 months are best, but if they're new, thoroughly soak with water and leave for 5 days whilst the temperature rises and cooks the inside. Then dig a little trough in the straw, put good composted soil in the hole, and plant seedlings.  Keep watered. Straw bale gardening uses more water than a normal garden.

You can plant vegetables, herbs or flowers. Young plants can go straight in. Pull apart the straw and put a handful of compost soil in, then let the straw go back into place.

Seeds can be planted on top if you put a layer of compost soil there first.

Top heavies like corn and okra, are not so good, unless you grow dwarf varieties.

With straw bale gardening it's hard to put solid stakes in so big tomato plants are out, although they will happily dangle over the edge.

Each bale should take up to half a dozen cucumbers, trailing down. Squash, zucchini, melons — maybe 3 plants, or a couple of tomato plants per bale with one or two herbs and leafy veggies in between. Four pepper plants will fit or 12-15 bean or pea plants.

There's no limit and why not poke in some flowering annuals around the sides for a table bouquet?

Once every 1-2 weeks water in a liquid organic feed, such as compost tea or fish emulsion. Tip some worms on top if you want to use your bales only one season.

Drop by later in the summer and see how the Blue Collar's garden is growing!  

At the Blue Collar, bread is an issue.  What's breakfast without fresh homemade bread toasted, or stale homemade bread converted to french toast, or a chunk of fresh, hot bread dipped in soft boiled egg, or--okay, you get the picture.

Until a couple weeks ago, i made most of the bread at the Blue Collar.  And then my dear friend Agnes, who shares a couple gorgeous grandkids with me, told me about a place called Loaf, in Fernie.  Not be be cliched, but omigod.  The cinnamon buns.  The sourdough.  The whole grain.  The plain old white.  You gotta try it.

In Fernie, turn left at the 7-11, then right at the first street, and you'll see a small yellow house.  Go in, have a coffee or tea, order an onion-cheese pasty, or whatever else the special of the day is.  And buy bread.  

I wish Loaf was in Sparwood--it would spare me a drive. But the bread is worth the trip.

If, however, you can't make it to Fernie, try this.  It's good and fast and earthy.  (Twenty minutes, and no oven needed, just a 12 inch nonstick skillet.)

TIBETAN FLATBREAD

In a medium bowl, mix 1 1/2 cups unbleached flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder and 1/2 tsp. salt

Add I cup water, mix into a thick, gooey dough

Spread 1 tbsp. oil in a 12 inch non stick frying pan

Add the dough to the pan, wet your hands, and press it flat

Add 2 tbsp. water

Cover, place over medium high heat and don't peek for 10 minutes

Reduce the heat, use a pancake turner and turn the loaf over

Cover, cook for 5 more minutes

Cut into wedges and serve

If Tibetan women could do it over little tiny fires outside, you have no excuse!

At the busy Blue Collar, time is sometimes measured in tiny increments.  As in, how long to change a bed?  How long to cook an omelet? How much time do I have to follow a recipe?

So just to prove that a busy life and decadence aren't mutually exclusive, try the following recipe when you have exactly six minutes to spare.

BLUE COLLAR SIX MINUTE CHOCOLATE CAKE

PREHEAT OVEN TO 375

Into an ungreased 8 inch square or 9 inch round cakepan, sift together:

1 1/2 cups unbleached flour

1/3 cup cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup sugar

In a 2 cup measuring cup, mix together:

1/2 cup vegetable oil

1 cup cold coffee or water

2 teaspoons vanilla

Pour liquid over flour, etc. in baking pan.  (Trust me, this will work fine.)  Mix together with a whisk or fork until batter is smooth.  Then add 2 tablespoons white vinegar, and stir fast.  There will be pale swirls, just mix until everythings distributed and there's no flour showing.

Bake for 30 minutes.  Ice when cool.

I haven't served it for breakfast---yet.  But I plan to. 

At the Blue Collar B&B, that feeling usually means I've overbooked, horror of horrors.  People show up and I have no beds left.  They remind me I assured them I had a vacancy--and all I can do is apologize and offer them one night free next time.  It's hard not to have an emotional breakdown when you do something like that, but I have a story that consoles me.

My favorite--and only--little sister, Karen, once invited an entire church congregation to her house for a pot luck supper.  She then totally forgot she'd said anything, and went thru the appointed day with that queer little feeling. She got home to find over a hundred people waiting for her, and she'd done no prep whatsoever.  Being Karen, she carried it off with aplomb rather than going to the back garden and committing hari kari with a serrated knife, which would have been my first response.

So, next time you overbook, or forget a function, or fail to remember a significant birthday--remember Karen, and be comforted.

And then my friend Pat, who often sets me straight on issues, sent me the following. It's written by Internatioal Peacemaker and Clinical Psychologist Marshall B. Rosenberg, Ph.D.

Many years ago I began to engage in an activity which significantly enlarged the pool of joy and happiness available to my life, while diminishing depression, guilt and shame. I offer it here as a possible way to deepen our compassion for ourselves, to help us live our lives out of joyous play by staying grounded in a clear awareness of the life-enriching need behind everything we do.

Translating Have to, to Choose to

 
Step 1
What do you do in your life that you don't experience as playful?

List on a piece of paper all those things that you tell yourself you have to do. List any activity you dread but do anyway because you perceive yourself to have no choice.

When I first reviewed my own list, just seeing how long it was gave me insight as to why so much of my time was spent not enjoying life. I noticed how many ordinary, daily things I was doing by tricking myself into believing that I had to do them.

The first item on my list was "write clinical reports." I hated writing these reports, yet I was spending at least an hour of agony over them every day. My second item was "drive the children's car pool to school."

Step 2
After completing your list, clearly acknowledge to yourself that you are doing these things because you choose to do them, not because you have to. Insert the words "I choose to . . . " in front of each item you listed.

I recall my own resistance to this step. "Writing clinical reports," I insisted to myself, "is not something I choose to do! I have to do it. I'm a clinical psychologist. I have to write these reports."

Step 3 
After having acknowledged that you choose to do a particular activity, get in touch with the intention behind your choice by completing the statement, I choose to . . . because I want . . . .

At first I fumbled to identify what I wanted from writing clinical reports. I had already determined, several months earlier, that the reports did not serve my clients enough to justify the time they were taking, so why was I continuing to invest so much energy in their preparation?

Finally I realized that I was choosing to write the reports solely because I wanted the income they provided. As soon as I recognized this, I never wrote another clinical report.

I can't tell you how joyful I feel just thinking of how many clinical reports I haven't written since that moment thirty-five years ago! When I realized that money was my primary motivation, I immediately saw that I could find other ways to take care of myself financially, and that in fact, I'd rather scavenge in garbage cans for food than write another clinical report.

The next item on my list of unjoyful tasks was driving the children to school. When I examined the reason behind that chore, however, I felt appreciation for the benefits my children received from attending their school. They could easily walk to the neighborhood school, but their own school was far more in harmony with my educational values.

I continued to drive, but with a different energy; instead of "Oh, darn, I have to drive the car pool today," I was conscious of my purpose, which was for my children to have a quality of education that was very dear to me. 

 Of course I sometimes needed to remind myself two or three times during the drive to refocus my mind on what purpose my action was serving.

As you explore the statement, "I choose to . . . because I want . . . ," you may discover -- as I did with the children's car pool -- the important values behind the choices you've made.

 I am convinced that after we gain clarity regarding the need being served by our actions, we can experience those actions as play even when they involve hard work, challenge, or frustration.

 We also cultivate self-compassion by consciously choosing in daily life to act only in service to our own needs and values rather than out of duty, for extrinsic rewards, or to avoid guilt, shame, and punishment. If we review the joyless acts to which we currently subject ourselves and make the translation from "have to" to "choose to," we will discover more play and integrity in our lives.

International peacemaker, Marshall B. Rosenberg, Ph.D., is the founder of the Center for Nonviolent 

It's not that the quirky ambience at the Blue Collar has driven them bonkers.  It's simply that today is April Fool's Day.

So where did this whacky tradition ever start?  According to a site on Google:

The most common origin of the odd tradition of April Fools is attributed to 16th-century France. During that period, King Charles IX tore up the traditional calendar and moved New Year's from the end of March to January 1 in 1582, leading to the mocking of those who still celebrate the new year in spring as fools. In fact, one of the most popular jokes to play during this period was sneaking a paper fish onto an unsuspecting fools' back, with the victim dubbed a Poisson d'Avril, or April Fish, which continues to be the French term for the practice to this day.

So there you have it.  Go find a paper fish and do your stuff.

And happy April's Fool's Day, everyone.

Isn't it great to have oe day when nonsense is appreciated and smiles are in order?

When it comes to coffee, guests are pretty much stuck with what i serve at the Blue Collar B&B, which until now has been Kirkland's best--Costco to those in the know.  And it's been successful, there have been compliments.  So far, no complaints.

So when local entrepeneurs decided to start Blue Collar Coffee, grinding their own beans, I had mixed feelings about the name.  If the coffee was good, their name choice would benefit us both.  And if it was awful--I'd have to keep explaining that the name was their choice, not related to Blue Collar B&B.

The good news is, the coffee's superb.

The better news is, good coffee and a guest go together like--bed and breakfast.

Keep uo the good work, grinders.

Is advertising even neccessary in the accomodation business?  Can't you just register with your local Chamber of Commerce and then sit back and wait for customers to find you?

Maybe a decade ago.  But in the modern world of electronics and social networking, the answer is a resounding no.

The Internet has changed the hospitality game.  Word of mouth is still the best advertising, and of course there's Trip Advisor, but the Bed and Breakfast host must also be aware of Twitter, Facebook, My Space, and the ever increasing number of networking "rooms" out there. Most often, someone needing accomodation in Sparwood goes straight to the Internet, types in, Sparwood accomodation, and chooses on the basis of what comes up tops on Google.  

The Blue Collar isn't at the top of the list--yet.  But I'm working on it.  Not that it's easy.  

I'm a candlelight woman in a chromium age.  But I'm determined.

Watch out, Google.  The Blue Collar Bed and Breakfast is moving on up!

www.bluecollarbedandbreakfast.com

The answer is usually absolutely nothing, but the good news is these quiet times can be the impetus needed to make a few changes.  Maybe your website needs updating?  Or there are advertising opportunities you're overlooking??  These quiet times can be inspirational, and if you've been in the hospitality business for a while, you gradually come to understand they're inevitable, and also that your B&B can be empty one day and filled to the gunnals the next.  

So stop agonizing.  Enjoy the down time.  Look for new ways to promote your B&B.

And remember the old adage about the calm before the storm.

bobby hutchinson

www.bluecollarbedandbreakfast.com

When you run a busy B&B, reservations often come on the phone.

"Do you need a desposit?" the friendly male voice inquires.  He'll be in Sparwood three days, and wants to stay at the Blue Collar.

"No, but please be sure to notify me if you can't make it."

He assures me he will.

The day of his arrival arrives.  I re-dust the bedroom, stock the guest fridge with soda, put water bottles on the bedside tables, make sure there's candy and nuts on the table in the bedroom, bake cookies and put a plate out for him.  I shop for fresh fruit, buy bacon, check supplies against my menu to be sure I have everything in stock.

He says he'll be late, so I turn on all the lights, light a fire in the wood stove so it's cozy, keep the TV turned low so I won't miss the doorbell.

8, 9, 10.  I call the number he gave me.  Wrong number.  No call from him to cancel or explain.

By 11.30, I know I've been jilted.  Stood up.  Left at the alter.  I turn out the lights, lock the door and go to bed. 

I feel disgruntled, betrayed.  Puzzled as to why someone would go to all the trouble of making reservations, only to ignore them.

And so now I have reservations about reservations. 

Who is my customer?

What is their biggest fear?

What problems can I solve for them?

How can I supply the best service and accomodation, and make them totally comfortable?

As B&B owners, our highest goal is customer satisfaction.  Success is not having guests who stay only one night and never return--not just to the Blue Collar, but to any B&B, because of a bad experience.  Our responsibility is not just to our own business.  We represent all B&B's when we open our doors to guests.

We want guests who return, who tell others what a great stay they had with us.

Our motto should always be, Assume You Can Improve.

Bobby Hutchinson

www.bluecollarbedandbreakfast.com

I think that personality definitely has an influence.  There are some chronically shy souls (believe it or not, I'm in this category) who prefer the total anonymity of a hotel.  There are other adventurous people who adore the B&B experience, and we celebrate and welcome you.  But there's a group between these two extremes that the B&B owner eager to attract new business needs to be aware of.

These are people who've never stayed at a B&B and are nervous because they have no idea what to expect.  They are often male--females are usually the more adventurous of the species.  These guys have a misconception about B&B's, visualizing a frill bedecked bedroom the size of a large closet, with a bed from the last century, one with bedsprings, no less, that squeak.  A claustrophobic cottage where some white haired woman follows them around with a feather duster, scowling about the mud on their shoes and presenting them with a single (small) egg for breakfast along with an extra small slice of toast.  At seven fifteen, precisely.

B&B owners, unite!  It's our assignment, (should we choose to accept it,) to lure these misguided, misinformed people to our establishments, using any underhanded method that comes to mind.  One that occurs to me is to use a free, recorded message on both our telephones and our web pages, something along the lines of:

Welcome, B&B virgins!  The Blue Collar offers you all the comforts of home, without the to do list.  Semi private entrance, no curfew, large quiet comfortable room and matching bed.  Huge extravagent breakfast whenever you choose to get up, conversation optional. 

I'd skip the part about my white hair.  And I do have a feather duster, but what the heck.

Nobody's perfect, right??

When you're single and running a B&B, it's hard to know whether it's best to close the place down and go on a holiday, or hire someone to fill in and hope all goes well until you get back.

I'm heading for Hawaii in a week, I'll be away for two weeks, and of course Murphy's Law holds steady--I'm getting inquiries about reservations for exactly those two weeks I'll be away.

As anyone who runs a small business knows all too well, emplyees are never going to care as much about your business as you do.  The best trraining in the world won't motivate anyone to the degree that being the proprietor--host--owner does.  And there's wages.  When you run a B&B in a small town, your profit margin doesn't allow for a full time helper, and there aren't a lot of qualified, intelligent folks who want to work part time changing beds, scrubbing bathrooms, keeping the wood fire going, and getting up at 6 AM to cook and be sociable for the wages I could afford to pay.

Except other B&B owners.  And there's the solution.  

We need to set up a B&B exchange.  I could go off to Hawaii and run a B&B there while someone from Hawaii who likes to ski and snowshoe could come to Sparwood and run the Blue Collar. All B&B hosts are so used to making breakfast and changing sheets it wouldn't be a hardship at all to do it somewhere else--how thrilling to have different sheets to change.  How exciting to cook in someone else's kitchen.  What a thrill, to scrub strange toilets.

It's a whole new niche industry, just waiting for some enterprising soul to set up.

And could you get it up and running this week, please? 

www.bobbyhutchinson.ca

www.bluecollarbedandbreakfast.com

When you run a B&B, guests are your targeted consumers, in the jargon of the ad people.  For me, they're also amazing sources of information and interest.

Take the gentleman and his son who were here last night. They were from Victoria, going skiing in Fernie, and over breakfast--the best conversations always happen over breakfast--we got talking about ghosts.  Don't ask, these things just happen while poeple are eating waffles and scrambled eggs at the Blue Collar.

It turned out they'd lived for many years in a house with a resident spirit, an old man who'd lived there all his life and died in the place, and was still very much present. As a child, the son slept in what had been the old guy's office.  Books and papers moved around of their own accord. The boy knew there was a presence, and when he was little, he was afraid of it. His father, on the other hand, made use of the ghost's knowledge.  When the furnace wouldn't start, despite visits from the serviceman, he'd ask help from the spirit, and the furnace would chug into action.

There are many themed B&B's, where people visit just for the unusual ambience.  As we talked, my mind composed sell sheets.

COME AND MEET THE BLUE COLLAR PHANTOM.

STAY IN THE HEART OF THE ROCKIES WITH A WRITER AND A RESIDENT GHOST.

It makes for wonderful copy.  I'll bet it would attract lots of targeted customers.

I wonder, does anyone know where I could maybe rent one?

Reasoable accomodation

sparwood

reasonable accomodations

sparwood, elk valley

sparwood map

fernie, sparwood

coal sparwood

mine jobs

elk valley

sparwood

So it's easy to see that reasonable accomodation would be a useful term to include in advertising your B&B, especially in the current market climate.  Whether or not the host chooses to advertise rates up front is personal, but I certainly choose to do so.  If I'm planning to stay somewhere, I like to know what it's going to cost without first searching through five pages of ads.

I also would like to see what the accomodations look like.  It's wise to take the best photos possible of your lodgings and post them everywhere, on your web site, on ads, with trip advisor.  Video is also invited on many sites, but be careful here.  A short, guided tour through your rooms is wonderful, but adding music and loud commentary meant to be funny isn't appealing.  (Unless you really are funny, and that's a tricky thing.)  Don't rely on your mother for good advice here.

Of course, all the catchy ad words and videos and photos in the world don't compare to good old word of mouth.

But the fact is, you have to get the mouth to stay before the word goes out.

Apple Puffed Pancake

Preheat oven to 425.

In 9 x 13 pan, melt ¼ cup butter in oven while heating.

Add 2 sliced apples – cook until butter sizzles but is not browned.

6 eggs

1 ½ cup milk

1 cup flour

2 Tbsp white sugar

1 tsp vanilla

½ tsp salt

¼ tsp cinnamon

Mix above in blender

Pour over apples

Sprinkle with 2 T brown sugar

Bake 20 min until puffed and brown.

Thank you, Peggy.

Haiti is a world away, an exotic locale few, if any, of us here have visited.  And yet tonight most of the town, like the rest of the world, watch in utter horror as televisions bring graphic photos of devestation from that far away country.

Those photos, that heartbreaking coverage, brings home to each of us the universality of the human condition. Love is indeed a universal language, as is pain, and loss, and terror. It's impossible to imagine a hundred thousand people dead, but one small, abandoned corpse, baby bottle lying nearby, breaks ones heart.

As do the countless thousands who now have nowhere to sleep tonight.  I have empty rooms at the Blue Collar B&B.  Watching people whose homes have been destroyed, who have less than nothing, makes me wish there was a way to magically transport a few here, where I have so much.

But of course that's impossible.  

When my sons were in their teens, my brother used to say, "The one thing a young guy can really use is twenty bucks."  And he'd hand bills to my boys, despite the fact he didn't have a lot himself.

He knew there's a vast divide betwen having a little, and having nothing.

And he knew as well that every gift given with an open heart is really given to ourselves.

Love, and money.  Those two, we'll send to Haiti.

There's no surety, no guaranteed income, when you run a B&B.  Days--very rarely, even weeks--might go by when you don't have a single soul staying, a single cent coming in.  And then, with the ring of the phone or the ding of the computer or even the sound of the doorbell, suddenly your rooms are full.

So you learn to let go, let whatever is happening now be enough.  If there are no guests, you can sleep late, skip breakfast (except for the Green Drink, never skip the Green Drink.)  You can ponce around in your housecoat till noon, leave your bed unmade, go for a long morning walk. Or you can lounge around and read the morning away.

And you can do those delicious lazy things with trust, without worrying yourself into a frenzy about bills and the state of the bank balance, because you've hosted a B&B long enough to know that a quiet time will always give way to a full house again.  

And that's where preparedness comes in.  

You stock the freezer with chocolate chip cookie rounds ready for baking.  You make sure there's always cream and butter and eggs in the fridge.  You dust the rooms and air them daily.

Trust.  Let Go.  Be in the Now.  Be prepared.

It's my Zen mantra for the B&B trade.  But you can use it whatever you do.

GREEN DRINK

1 scoop Greens (I use Genuine Health Daily Essentials)

2 cups water

1 banana

5 or 6 thin slices fresh ginger

1 scoop soy protein

3 tbsps. flaxseed or flaxseed oil

In the blender.  Yummm.

My rooms are in the lower level of the house, and I have a good gas furnace, but it's just not cozy down there without the Blaze Queen.  And I love her dearly, but she's insatiable when it comes to wood.

As the temperatures drop and my supply dwindles, I start getting anxious, which is a major lack of trust, because I have a son and daughter in law who cheerufully head off into the back of somewhere and a few hours later bring me a load, all chopped and ready to stack in my little storage room.  And then I load old Blaze to the gunnels and forget about the wood situation until the next time my supply gets low.

Which is a mistake, because a wood stove requires sustained effort. In many ways heating with wood is like undertaking a spiritual journey.  

It's so easy to get busy doing something else and forget your intention.

When it's burning bright, it's tempting to bask in the warmth and forget to be grateful for what's causing it.

When it smokes and refuses to ignite, it's easy to revert to moaning, "Why is this happening to me?"  instead of asking, "What is there here for me to learn?"  (For me, usually patience.  I don't wait for the kindling to light before adding the logs.  I don't have much patience with slow and steady: I want instant gratification.)

It's a daily, hourly challenge, what with chopping, loading, stacking-as it is with meditation, non judgement, forgiveness.

And like any good spiritual path, it's humbling.  Ther's nothing glamorous about crumbling paper and slicing kindling with an axe at 6 AM in your old housecoat and slippers.

Someone once asked a monk for the formula to enlightenment.

He said, "Chop wood, carry water."

"And afterwards, master?"

The monk smiled.

"Chop wood, carry water."

I'm slowly getting the hang of the chopping part.  I'll have to work on the water thing later.

I once had a guest check in late at night, an elderly, fragile gentleman, alone and obviously not in good health.  He was a drop in, someone who hadn't called ahead to reserve.  My other rooms were full, so I put him in the overflow room down the hall from me.  My other five guests were sound asleep downstairs.

The old guy had a bad chest, wheezing and coughing.  I offered aspirin and Tylenol and Buckley's Mixture, as well as a trip to the emergency room.  He refused everything, but as the night wore on, I could hear him whooping and heaving and choking, and it came to me that it was entirely possible he might die, right there at the Blue Collar.

I'd heard of an interesting situation at a B&B in the Okanagan.  The couple that ran it weren't getting along, and one early morning the discord reached critical mass, and the man stabbed his partner with the knife he was using to cut up the pineapple for the fruit course.  He then dragged the body into a storage closet, cleaned up the blood and served breakfast to four guests.  Only when they'd gone did he call the police.

I have to say I understood.  Not the murder part, of course not.  Just that death is so very bad for a B&B.  

It would take nerves of titanium to serve up sweet potato pancakes and eggs benny with a corpse down the hall.

As it turned out, the old gentleman at the Blue Collar made it thru the night, ate a hearty breakfast and went on his way, so I didn't have to make a decision.

But i do think it's something the B&B owner should think carefully about.

Before breakfast or after?  That is the question.

Instead I put on my heavy jacket, gloves, Sorrel boots, and a touque and braved the snowstorm to walk to the video store where I rented four movies. Back home, I baked a round of Brie in puff pastry.  I made popcorn, and ate it while I watched Management.  I put on Powder Blue and drank two bottles of Mike's hard lemonade. Then I ate the Brie and watched My Sister's Keeper.

It's midnight now, and its stopped snowing.  The fence posts all wear six new inches.  It's thirteen below, very still and peaceful under a bruised sky.

The party I missed is probably winding down, because it's 12:59 in Texas right now, although its only--wait for it--midnight here in Sparwood.  I hear the noise makers and firecrackers, and remember when i was a little girl my fahter would go to the front door and shoot his rifle into the sky.  That's illegal now, but back then everyone shot their rifle at midnight on New Year's Eve.

Happy New Year, all you friends far away I didn't quite meet tonight.  Same time, next year?

Happy New Year, everyone I know and those I'd like to know.

Happy New Year! 

So in honor and in hope of warmth and light returning, I resolve:

To stop checking for new email every ten minutes and get on with writing the book I'm planning to write

To stop planning and start writing

To appreciate more and criticize less 

To try not to judge anything, at least not before noon

To attempt something that's a little bit too difficult, and when I've achieved it, go on to the next thing that's too difficult.

And when I've achieved a whole bunch of things that I thought were too difficult, I resolve to try not to smugly conclude that I'm a whole lot smarter than anyone else.

And what about you?  Do I have to do this sun and summer thing all by myself, for god's sake?  It's way too difficult for one person.

So after you do your own resolving, then and only then will I wish you a wonderul and prosperous 2010.

Let me know, won't you?

Twenty eight of us, and nine were missing.  It amazes me that my mom and dad, who only had three kids, could have started this eruption. It shows how easily countries become overpopulated. The house was bursting at the seams.  The small ones played tag up and down the stairs and in the hall. The noise level was in the high decibel range.  

Everyone brought food.  Everyone brought gifts. This is an efficent group.  Also good feeders. And noisy, did I mention noisy?

By five, dinner was done and dessert was served. Tammy made cream puffs.  Lisa made cheesecake. Someone made coffee.  I'd hit the wall.  I wandered around with a dazed smile, accomplishing nothing.  But I have lovely nieces and granddaughters and a daughter in law who knows where everything lives in the cupboards.

By six, the folding tables were cleared away, the dishwasher purred through it's first load, and the little ones eagerly ripped open their gifts.

By seven, the adults were acting like kids, stealing gifts from one another.  (If you don't like the gift you open, you can trade.  The trades get noisy, and emotions run high. So does the laughter.)

By eight, the dishes were mostly done and people were leaving.  The young singles had parties to attend and their parents needed to go home and put their feet up. (Their parents being my children.  When did I become a matriarch?  I'm not suited for the job. I've had no training.) 

At eight thirty the house was silent and empty. I found the Christmas salad I'd made and forgotten to serve.

At nine, I turned out the lights and limped to bed.  Four solid days of frantic preparation, four hours of organized chaos, and the family dinner was over for another year.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all--a good night.

Just a few, easy to disguise tears when my grandson Ryan stood with his kindergarten class to render a shaky version of Oh, Christmas Tree.  They'd obviously been told to smile, because he twisted his face into a hideous grimace between words.  The boy next to him did a jig.  (Not part of the program.)  My grandniece Skylar refused to either smile or sing.  She stood stoically thru the whole ordeal, glowering out at the audience.  A small boy on the end of the row must have been too hot, because he unbuttoned his shirt.

(Ryan, by the way, never cries.  He just gets sweaty eyes.)

Then my granddaughter Lindsey and her Grade Two class signed Silent Night, and I totally lost it.  Tears, snot, sobs, the full monty.  My sister Karen says I don't get out enough, but that's not it.

I started school in a one room schoolhouse a mile from Frank J. Mitchell Elementary, surrounded by my cousins.  There were fifteen pupils.  My second grade teacher was Frank J. Mitchell.  He used to ride me home at lunchtime on the handlebars of his bike, so he could talk hunting with my dad.  We were usually late getting back. 

At the Christmas concert that year, Jimmy Bodswoth, a musical prodigy who'd never had any training, played the piano accordian as our accompaniest.

Gordon Whiting and Johnny Cosserini sang a duet, except they each sang a different song.  Hark the Herald competed with Little Town of Bethlehem, and despite Frank's frantic shushing efforts, the boys perservered right thru to the end.  Jimmy, horrified, stopped playing half way thru, and they finished a capella.

Johnny died young.  My dad's been gone many years, as has Frank Mitchell, for whom this new school is named.

I had no idea then that my middle son would be deaf.  I'd never heard of sign language.

I look at these beautiful, innocent little people and i wonder what their lives will hold. I want with all my heart for them to live happily ever after, but that's not how this world operates.  What challenges wait for them, what twists and turns will their lives hold?

And that's why my eyes sweat as much as they do.

Guests arriving tomorrow, have to get the tree up today, I'm already late.  Daughter in law and I borrowed son's lovely beast of an antique truck to pick up trees at the store, the trees are bound columns of ice.

Leaned mine against the wall in the living room to thaw, dug thru the garage to find boxes marked Christmas, unearthed the plastic tree stand.  

The tree is thawed, but shedding needles like a mangy dog sheds hair in the springtime.  Wrestled it into the stand, screwed the screws--and it fell over.

Tightened the screws.  Over again.

Tried tying it to the wall, leans like the famous tower.  

Sweating now and just a bit testy.  Why didn't I use my old, mothy artificial tree?

One more time with feeling.  Over again.  

Left it lying there, put on my coat and went to Fernie to Canadian Tire, where for a little more than half a hundred I bought a stand that says one person can put up a tree in ten minutes flat.

Home again to learn that person isn't me.  Needles in my hair, my mouth, all over the living room, tree on the floor, directions not working.

Phone my trusty neighbor Jean.  Together we saw off branches, stuff the trunk in the holder, somehow get the tree upright and in the bottom part of the stand.

It's crooked.  Down again.  Needles in Jean's hair, stuck to her sweater, her socks, the roof of her mouth.

One, two, heave.

The cursed thing is finally upright, albeit still shedding.  Where did this thing about Christmas and trees ever start, anyhow?

We have tea to recover.

Jean goes home and granddaughter arrives to help decorate.

The lights go on--they're not evenly spaced.  The bobbles are hung, mostly at the bottom--Lindsey is tall for her age, but she's still only seven.  The angel, listing heavily to the right, teeters on the top.

We're done.  I heave a sigh of relief.

My granddaughter's eyes shine brighter than the twinkling lights of all the trees in town, and the ghosts of Christmas past hover over us, shedding blessings.

A girl of about four visited some months ago, and she came upstairs before her parents in the morning to talk to me.  She gave me a running discourse on her parents likes and dislikes, her grandparent's opinions on the state of the world, and her own preferences for breakfast.  By the time her mom appeared, I knew a great deal about the entire family, not all of it stuff they'd want disclosed. (Grandpa apparently had a major problem with farting, and Auntie Leah was getting a baby, but she didn't have a daddy yet.)

My grandson, Ryan, visits me often.  He's just turned five, he's mega chatty, and we have "chipchaps" about most unlikely things, of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings--and icebergs and backugons and the ethics of lending and giving back.  (I'll share my bakugans, I'll put two in your drawer, but when I say please, you have to give them back.  Right now. Please.)

There's so much to learn from kids about openness, honesty, ethics.  And the details of ordinary life.  What kind of underpants Grandma wears. The fact that Mom sneaks a smoke now and then, but we don't tell Daddy. That you have to have a shower right after you poop. That the matrix is where you go when you dream.

Every B&B needs kids who come and visit.  It keeps the place from getting stodgy.  

My guests last night were moms with daughters who were skaters.  

There's this wonderful thing about youngsters, especially kids like the two who stayed.  They're spontaneous, affectionate, and oh so smart--are young people getting smarter than they were in my day?  I think so.  I think it's the exposure to media that we didn't have.  And yeah, there's a lot of danger there, but there's also this keen awareness of the world in these beautiful young people. They're socially adept in the very best fashion.

But these two young ladies also have moms who are all of the above--aware, socially graceful, spontaneous, affectionate.  Smart. Did I mention they were readers who loved books?

The exact kind of guests with whom I'd love to spend more time.

Come back soon, skaters.  And be sure to bring your mothers.