#zackmason — Public Fediverse posts

EDITOR’S NOTE: COMMUNITY AND CONNECTION AMID TIMES OF DREAD

In April, I had the pleasure of attending the launch of The Walldog, a new local online outlet. This is a critical arts project, one that focuses on the creation of cultural memory and imagination for the future. 

“The Walldog reads public art, ghost signs, murals, textiles, protest aesthetics, and vernacular design as openings into potential histories and yet-to-be-imagined futures, […]

THE SAGE PART TWO

The Sage was inchoate and distressed as he flew off into the darkness of the forest. He trundled through brackets and thistles. He wheeled into a thorn bush. He tripped on a root, he slipped on some moss, he fell down a long hill and hit his head on a rock at the bottom. When he woke, The Sage was staring up at the night sky and a smattering of stars.

Not only was The Sage spiritually lost but physically lost too. He’d wanted to go home almost as soon as he’d left, but now, after the stumbling and bushwhacking, and knocking his head, he had no clue where home was. To top it all off, he was heartbroken as well.

The Sage was inchoate and distressed as he flew off into the darkness of the forest. He trundled through bracken and thistles. He wheeled into a thorn bush. He tripped on a root, he slipped on some moss, he fell down a long hill and hit his head on a rock at the bottom. When he woke, The Sage was staring up at the night sky and a smattering of stars. 

Not only was The Sage spiritually lost but physically lost too. He’d wanted to go home almost as soon as he’d left, but now, after the stumbling and bushwhacking, and knocking his head, he had no clue where home was. To top it all off, he was heartbroken as well. 

He didn’t understand that his wife regretted her harsh words. But also, he wasn’t ready to change either. There were still too many questions to ask. At least The Sage was Sage enough to know that. 

“What has my life become?” He shouted into the darkness.  

“I’m empty.”  

He gnashed his teeth and wailed.   

But through his tears, The Sage saw a comet with a red tail burning. It traced crimson across the dome of the heavens, like a beetle crawling along the inside of a glass. He sat up and shrugged and figured he’d follow the falling star.  

So, he did.   

He picked his way through a polluted stream, filled with soggy paper cups, and the tangled skeleton of a discarded tent.  

“Yuck,” he murmured, stepping over the swirls of iridescent oil.  

“Wait!,” called a muffled voice. And when the Sage looked down, he saw floating in a puddle on the bank of the stream, a sick goldfish. It was one of those goldfish with bulbous foreheads.  

“Please,” called the fish. “I’ve been flushed. You gotta help me, man.”  

The Sage looked around and shrugged. He didn’t have anything on him but his clothes.  

“Sorry pal, no dice.”  

The goldfish wailed. “Come on! I don’t care what you put me in! Hold me in your mouth for all I care! I just gotta get outta here!”  

So, The Sage plucked a stretched out old condom from the riverbank. He rinsed it in the murky stream, filled it with water, and plopped the goldfish inside.  

“You won’t regret this!” bubbled the fish.  

“Sure thing,” sighed The Sage. He tied the latex shut with a snap and pushed it into his pocket.  

The Sage traveled for many days, through fields and forests and city blocks where people walked quickly with their heads hung low. All the while keeping his eye on that burning comet tail.  

One day, The Sage came to a hill, and as he climbed the hill, he started to cry. Fat salty tears poured from his eyes and into his dirty beard.  

“This might be it,” He wept to the fish. “This could be the end of the trip. I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m following a star. What the hell am I even doing up here?”  

“You’re just looking,” said the little voice from inside the condom, inside the Sage’s pocket. “That’s kind of all there is to do on a hill like this.”  

When Rhe Sage crested the hill, he gaped, astonished.  

At the top of the hill was a hot dog stand, and inside the hot dog stand was the young guy with kinky hair, and the woman with hot dog fingers.  

“What the hell,” cried the Sage. “What are you doing here?”  

“Well, I came up here after you told me to run to the top of a hill,” said the woman with hot dog fingers. “And once I got here, I was so tired I lay down and took a nap.”  

“And I came up here, because I was following the comet,” said the guy with the kinky hair.  

“And while I was sleeping,” continued the woman with the hot dog fingers, “a little white dog came and started chewing on my fingers.”  

“It was my dog,” said the guy with the kinky hair, astonished. “She found him! He loves hot dogs!”  

“And he’s not the only one,” said the woman with hot dog fingers, a little saucily. She held her hand up to The Sage, who was dazzled by a shiny engagement ring with a big fat stone in the middle.  

“I proposed on the spot,” said the guy with the kinky hair.  

“So, I left my husband, and bought this hot dog stand, and we live here now. My relationship’s way better with my kids, too,” said the woman with hot dog fingers. “Who’d have guessed–they just hated our fighting.”  

The Sage nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying,” he said. “Is that I did this?”  

The couple blinked.  

“What?”  

“I’m responsible for this,” crowed the Sage. “I knew this would happen! My advice was good!”  

“I mean, I guess,” said the woman with hot dog fingers.  

“Yeah, well, it was kind of our own th–” said the young guy, but his fiancée elbowed him in the ribs.  

“He clearly needs this, Josh,” she hissed.  

And she was right. The Sage did need this. He cheered and whooped and fell to his knees in tears. He bid the happy couple farewell and ran down the hill and through the city squares, and the fields, and forests, and over streams and up cliffs, and finally made it to his old front door.  

“I’m home! I’m home,” he shouted.  

The Sage’s wife was happy to see him, but furious that he’d left. “Where the hell have you been,” she shouted. “I’ve been worried sick!”  

The Sage, being very old, took a long time to catch his breath.  

“You were right! I’m self-centred,” he gasped.   

“But I went on a long journey and I found this couple, and I’m the reason they’re together, and I’m NOT A FAILURE OF A SAGE ANYMORE!”  

The Sage’s wife looked skeptical, so The Sage produced from inside his pocket, the goldfish filled condom.  

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “I carried this goldfish in my pocket and I love him, and now I’m giving him to you, because I love you.”  

The Sage’s wife looked into the condom.  

“This goldfish is dead,” she said.  

The Sage opened and closed his mouth, looking at the fish. His wife was right. It was dead. Apparently goldfish don’t do well, crammed in a condom full of dirty water, in a crazy old man’s coat pocket.  

It was clear to The Sage’s wife that her husband was not reformed. He’d had his ego rebuilt, not washed away. But it was also clear to her that he was a ridiculous fool, and that was why she’d married him in the first place.  

“Listen,” she said. “This is all very nice. But I don’t care.”  

Then she hugged The Sage, and kissed his forehead, and left to tend to her salves, as he sat in wait for his next querent, pleasantly convinced that something had changed. 

“What has my life become?” He shouted into the darkness. 

“I’m empty.” 

He gnashed his teeth and wailed.  

But through his tears, the Sage saw a comet with a red tail burning. It traced crimson across the dome of the heavens, like a beetle crawling along the inside of a glass. He sat up and shrugged and figured he’d follow the falling star. 

So, he did.  

He picked his way through a polluted little stream, filled with soggy paper cups, and the tangled skeleton of a discarded tent. 

“Yuck,” he murmured, stepping over the swirls of iridescent oil. 

“Wait!,” called a muffled little voice. And when the Sage looked down, he saw floating in a puddle on the bank of the stream, a sick little goldfish. It was one of those goldfish with bulbous foreheads. 

“Please,” called the fish. “I’ve been flushed. You gotta help me, man.” 

The Sage looked around and shrugged. He didn’t have anything on him but his clothes. 

“Sorry pal, no dice.” 

The goldfish wailed. “Come on! I don’t care what you put me in! Hold me in your mouth for all I care! I just gotta get outta here!” 

So, the Sage plucked a stretched out old condom from the riverbank. He rinsed it in the murky stream, filled it with water, and plopped the goldfish inside. 

“You won’t regret this!” bubbled the fish. 

“Sure thing,” sighed the Sage. He tied the latex shut with a snap and pushed it into his pocket. 

The Sage traveled for many days, through fields, and forests, and city blocks where people walked quickly with their heads hung low. All the while keeping his eye on that burning comet tail. 

One day, the Sage came to a hill, and as he climbed the hill, he started to cry. Fat salty tears poured from his eyes and into his dirty beard. 

“This might be it,” He wept to the fish. “This could be the end of the trip. I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m following a star. What the hell am I even doing up here?” 

“You’re just looking,” said the little voice from inside the condom, inside the Sage’s pocket. “That’s kind of all there is to do on a hill like this.” 

When the Sage crested the hill, he gaped, astonished. 

At the top of the hill was a hotdog stand, and inside the hotdog stand was the young guy with kinky hair, and the woman with hot-dog fingers. 

“What the hell,” cried the Sage. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I came up here after you told me to run to the top of a hill,” said the woman with hot-dog fingers. “And once I got here, I was so tired I lay down and took a nap.” 

“And I came up here, because I was following the comet,” said the man with the kinky hair. 

“And while I was sleeping,” continued the woman with the hot-dog fingers, “a little white dog came and started chewing on my fingers.” 

“It was my dog,” said the guy with the kinky hair, astonished. “She found him! He loves hot-dogs!” 

“And he’s not the only one,” said the woman with hot-dog fingers, a little saucily. She held her hand up to the Sage, who was dazzled by a shiny engagement ring with a big fat stone in the middle. 

“I proposed on the spot,” said the guy with the kinky hair. 

“So, I left my husband, and bought this hot-dog stand, and we live here now. My relationship’s way better with my kids, too,” said the woman with hot dog fingers. “Who’d have guessed–they just hated our fighting.” 

The Sage nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying,” he said. “Is that I did this?” 

The couple blinked. 

“What?” 

“I’m responsible for this,” crowed the Sage. “I knew this would happen! My advice was good!” 

“I mean, I guess,” said the woman with hot-dog fingers. 

“Yeah, well, it was kind of our own th–” said the young guy, but his fiancée elbowed him in the ribs. 

“He clearly needs this, Josh,” she hissed. 

And she was right. The Sage did need this. He cheered and whooped and fell to his knees in tears. He bid the happy couple farewell and ran down the hill and through the city squares, and the fields, and forests, and over streams and up cliffs, and finally made it to his old front door. 

“I’m home! I’m home,” he shouted. 

The Sage’s wife was happy to see him, but furious that he’d left. “Where the hell have you been,” she shouted. “I’ve been worried sick!” 

The Sage, being very old, took a long time to catch his breath. 

“You were right! I’m self-centred,” he gasped.  

“But I went on a long journey and I found this couple, and I’m the reason they’re together, and I’m NOT A FAILURE OF A SAGE ANYMORE!” 

The Sage’s wife looked skeptical, so The Sage produced from inside his pocket, the goldfish filled condom. 

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “I carried this goldfish in my pocket and I love him, and now I’m giving him to you, because I love you.” 

The Sage’s wife looked into the condom. 

“This goldfish is dead,” she said. 

The Sage opened and closed his mouth, looking at the fish. His wife was right. It was dead. Apparently goldfish don’t do well, crammed in a condom full of dirty water, in a crazy old man’s coat pocket. 

It was clear to the Sage’s Wife that her husband was not reformed. He’d had his ego rebuilt, not washed away. But it was also clear to her that he was a ridiculous fool, and that was why she’d married him in the first place. 

“Listen,” she said. “This is all very nice. But I don’t care.” 

Then she hugged the Sage, and kissed his forehead, and left to tend to her salves, as he sat in wait for his next querent, pleasantly convinced that something had changed. that something had changed. 

JUN-KAN PERMACULTURE IS ON A MISSION OF REPAIR

Just off Notre-Dame Rd. in Petersburg, Ontario is the Jun-kan Permaculture Garden. The garden sits on one of 20 acres in the Petersburg Community Garden, and volunteers tend permaculture food forests and annual vegetable terraces.   

The garden was started in 2022 when the land’s owner, Daryl Dore decided he no longer wanted to rent his fields to cash-cropping commercial farmers. Dore contacted Doug Jones of the Waterloo Regional Community Garden Network and proposed that his land be available to individuals, especially new Canadians.  

While the proposal was eagerly accepted, years of cash cropping and heavy pesticide use had left the soil damaged.  

“In a word, this soil was dead. And poisoned,” Barbara Hankins, one of Jun-kan’s volunteers, said.  

Permaculture gardening operates on the basis of symbiosis and diversity. A wide array of individual species are planted in cooperative guilds to work in concert with each other and the environment. Together, they thrive and improve the quality of the land they are growing on.   

This is where the name Jun-kan comes from. The garden’s website explains, it is a Japanese word that translates roughly to “the universe,” or “the cycle of life”. In accordance with the principles of permaculture, Jun-kan’s first step was to plant swaths of five distinct cover crops: clover, alfalfa, buckwheat, field peas, and rye. Quickly, the earth began to heal and the gardeners started producing food, still with permaculture in mind.  

“[We ask ourselves,] ‘what does the ground need? What do the plants need? How can I give to them because they are giving to me?’,” Hankins said.  

In turn, the land gives back to its farmers, not just in food, but in a more existential way as well. This is especially helpful at Jun-kan, where many of the volunteers are new Canadians and do not own their own land. People are given the opportunity to form a relationship with the land they may not otherwise have been able to. This is crucial for a sense of belonging.  

“This garden supports a huge diversity of growers from around the world, and it’s nourishing to see how the diversity of culturally relevant foods, approaches, skills, stories…the diversity enhances our resilience as a community of gardeners,” Nikola Barsoum, one of Jun-kan’s founding volunteers, said.  

The ethos of repair and repurposing extends beyond physical gardening and the dignity of the volunteers as well. In 2023, ongoing war in Lebanon put Hankins’ family in danger, and here in KW, her house burned down. The garden provided the family with relief, repairing them in the wake of the tragedies. The bricks from their home were salvaged and used to cobble Jun-kan’s community fire pit.  

“We went through so much that year. This was my therapy. Coming out here, and just being with the land, with the earth, with the butterflies, and feeding the insects and the birds… Watching things grow is very therapeutic,” Hankins said.  

Restoring the land, offering a dignified community for newcomers and a sanctuary for its volunteers, Jun-Kan is on a mission of repair. For more information, the garden can be found on Instagram @junkanpermaculture, or on their website. 

#agriculture #BarbaraHankins #belonging #dougJones #Gardening #junKan #nikolaBarsoum #Ontario #permaculture #Petersburg #RandyMoore #waterlooRegionalCommunityGarden #ZackMason

RIBFEST RETURNS TO THE REGION

Friday, July 18 marked the beginning of Kitchener-Waterloo’s Ribfest and Craft Beer Show by Nedlaw Roofs (henceforth known as ‘Ribfest’). The event was hosted in Willow River Park and spanned three days. Stands touting anything from fountain drinks to beer, to live music were all dwarfed by the main attraction: the ribs.  

Churning out 100 racks per hour, rib experts flanked the field, each blaring music, cranking grills, ringing bells, shouting orders, and slinging sides of pork so surprisingly unique, that we took it upon ourselves to write an entire article about the experience of sampling each one.  

That’s right—we subjected ourselves to ribs from all six stands at Ribfest. It was a symphony of taste and an assault to the arteries. Here are our thoughts:  

Zack’s winning pick was unequivocally Fat Boys BBQ. Zack’s all about nuanced flavour, and Fat Boys delivered: Hickory smoke, chili, balanced acidity and sweetness. With just the right amount of delicious sauce and tender, shred-able meat, Fat Boys Barbecue can’t be beatbeaten! Fat Boys was Ayden’s second pick – close but no cigar.   

Second up for Zack was Dinosaur BBQ. Dino’s used a smokey sauce with notes of apple (actually!). The real drawdraw, however, was the char. These ribs were flame-kissed. Never mind carcinogens! That bitter bite had us drooling. This was Ayden’s pick for the best rack of ribs. He loves burnt food.   

Zack’s third place was Uncle Sam’s BBQ. Ignoring the blatant American patriotism, Uncle Sam provided the quintessential rib. Ol’ Faithful. Some could accuse them of playing it safe, but we say, “Why re-invent the wheel?” For these very reasons, Ayden had Uncle Sam in fourth place. Good, not great.   

Fourth up for Zack was Silver Bullet BBQ. We don’t know what these suppliers were feeding their hogs, but Silver Bullet hit a bull’s-eye when it came to size. Where S.B really missed the mark was in sauciness. These bones were bone dry! For Ayden, Silver Bullet came in third place. Sometimes a dry rub and porky taste hits the spot.   

While a crowd favourite, Boss Hogs ultimately didn’t measure up. Zack and Ayden agree these ribs were too sweet, and not that saucy. The cook wasn’t closing any deals, and the ribs were a bit skinny too. Unfortunately, Boss Hogs didn’t leave us squealing with delight.  

Zack and Ayden’s last place pick was Camp 31. Simply underwhelming. Not enough sauce, no char, and an overly oily texture could have been forgivable. As soon as Ayden noticed some broken bones in his portion, all bets were off. He tapped out and gave his leftovers to Zack (“Hey, a rib’s a rib!”)  

Celebrating the summer by eating as much barbequed meat as possible is a time-honoured tradition. It’s tough to say whether this experience will negatively impact our health, but the sun burns, barbeque sauce and good friends will stay with us forever. In the end, this was an amazing article to…research. 

#AydenElworthy #beer #bossHogs #craftBeerShow #dinosaurBbq #fatBoysBbq #fountainDrinks #grills #JessiWood #nedlawRoofs #ribfest #silverBulletBbq #uncleSamsBbq #ZackMason

FIFTH ANNUAL CHERRY FESTIVAL AT CHERRY PARK

 July 5, 2025 welcomed the fifteenth annual Cherry Festival at Cherry Park in Kitchener. Despite a high of 30°C and next to no cloud cover, over 1,400 people from Waterloo Region flocked to the park to enjoy all the festival had to offer.  

Attractions included the Cherry Train ride for children, a carousel swing ride, mini putt, rock climbing, an inflatable fun house, and more.  The festival also hosted more than 70 vendors, 12 performance acts across two stages, and even a wrestling ring, right  in the middle. 

“It started in 2008… just a small barbecue and a few games, things like that. Then they decided to add on, and build it and try to make it great,” Dan Rudow, chair of the Cherry Festival Organizing Committee, said. 

Rudow, a forklift operator at his day job, and about 100 other neighbourhood volunteers made the festival possible. Rudow finds the work rewarding. 

“It’s a fun thing to do with the neighbours, and I just wanted to provide a nice neighbourhood for my daughter to live in,” he said. 

The greatest attraction at the 2025 Cherry Festival was, of course, the cherries. Ice cream, pies, tarts, brownies, jam, squares and more were available. 

“[People] should volunteer if they think they can do better,” one patron said. “Besides, it’s moving fine!” 

And once the festival goers got their goodies, satisfaction was high. 

“The crust is good, the flavour’s good. Not too sweet, not too tart. I dig it,” TJ, another attendee, said.  

He and his partner, Amelia, were enjoying their slices in the sun as a distraction.  

“Today’s her due date. So, we’re just eating cherry pie, waiting for a baby,” he said. 

TJ and Amelia were joining a long tradition of family stories and the Cherry Festival.  

“Kids have grown up coming to this, and now they’re bringing kids of their own. It’s a really satisfying thing just to be part of something fun,” Rudow said. 

#2025CherryFestival #brownies #carouselSwing #cherryFestival #CherryPark #DanRudow #iceCream #inflatableFunHouse #miniPutt #pies #rockClimbing #squares #theCherryTrain #ZackMason