It’s no secret that I’m from the Martimes and, by jeezus, sometimes I miss it.
I spent most of my life along the Atlantic coast. Besides growing up there, I did university in Halifax and most of my career in media publishing took place between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick (where I was born.) Five years ago, we moved back to Ontario, however, and left the ocean behind, (‘to go to sea no more‘, if you will.) Living in Ottawa has been good to me, as it’s where things finally came together in terms of realizing my desire to write fiction.
Naturally, with such beautifully rugged and majestic origins, I get homesick from time to time. So last night we enjoyed a rare treat in the form of ‘authentic’ Halifax donairs. It turns out that more than a few East Coasters have ended up in Upper Canada over the years, and we were invited down to a place on Bronson Ave which specializes in the uniquely Haligonian fare–Centretown Halifax Pizza & Donair. Besides our host, we met up with a couple of other fellows from Moncton and Annapolis Royal to enjoy a meal I’ve not had in years. (In case you’re not up on the debate about the originality of the dish, it is true that it’s based off Mediterranean gyros or doner kebabs, but the particularly sweet and garlicky donair sauce is the local addition to the recipe. That’s all Halifax.)
Even though I found my literary voice here in Ottawa, I’d be amiss to not credit growing up Easterner with setting the hook for the dream to write. True, often joke that in the town I grew up in you would be teased for reading books, never mind wanting to write one. But things change and my hometown became
populated by several great writers who rebelled against the stigma and excelled. (David Adams Richards being at the forefront.) My first published article was a Christmas essay in the Saint John Telegraph Journal, and my first paid newspaper job was in Miramichi.
Halifax was the creative hotspot though. I went to university there in the early nineties, when pursuing music, art, film and literature seemed the norm. (Good luck getting a factory job in that recession.) I especially remember the coffee house culture and participating in poetry readings every Wednesday night at the Green Bean Café. That’s where I met the friend who invited us out last night. He’s been here freelancing writing for the gov’ment for a quarter century now. I’m pretty thrilled we have still be able to keep in touch and even if it’s not 2 a.m. on Pizza Corner, we can still wolf down an old favourite like the donair.
I expect Ottawa to be our home for a while, though I have no idea if I’ll retire here. Nonetheless, I’m grateful that we made it back east this past July. We took the long way home to Miramichi, around the Acadian Peninsula so as to enjoy the splendour of the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Northumberland Strait. With luck, we’ll see home again at Christmas and I can once again enjoy the rare delight that is Dixie Lee Fried Chicken.
