Coldest Day of the Year

We decided to have dinner at the Fo'c'sle Pub tonight. It is the oldest pub in Nova Scotia (since 1764) and, serendipitously, it turned out to be the annual Drama Society's Benefit night, known as the Coldest Day of the Year. It's celebrated every year on the second Saturday of February. Both rooms were crammed with people and a different band or choral group performed every hour. The Drama Society folks collected a ten dollar cover charge from each person and also sold raffle tickets for an hourly drawing. 

"How do you get to be in the Drama Society?" I asked Esther, the club secretary "I want to be in it."

"What can you do?" she asked me.

As I was thinking about it, she said, "Can you write?" 

"As a matter of fact . . . and I can paint too. I'll do anything. I have no friends." She took down my name and email address. The man standing behind her told me about April workshops for writers, designers and whathaveyou.  No way I'm missing that.

A large family group had two empty chairs at their table and invited us to sit. I chatted with the woman on my left, who was a speech therapist working mostly with rehabilitation for stroke victims and the like. Tom spoke with her husband who worked on the oil rigs off Newfoundland--three weeks on and three weeks off. 

I think all 10,000 citizens of Chester were at that pub. It was heavenly. Tom and I danced to some Ceilidh music which seemed to be something between a jitterbug and square dancing. I know we doh see dohed. Much laughter and clapping. Best night of the whole three months we've been here. Absolutely the best.

Shows what you can do with Excedrin, a back brace, and raised adrenalin levels. Whoohaaa.

P.S. Tom wants me to say that he is not as retarded as the photo makes him look. Duh.