A Child's Christmas in Hamilton

 

The following was first published by Hamilton design firm, factor[e] design initiative, as part of a holiday-giving campaign in 2012.  The short book, illustrated by Chelsea Peters, edited and laid out by the factor[e] team, and authored by Ryan Moran, was written in the style of the classic Dylan Thomas prose, A Child's Christmas in Wales.  In addition to the charitable aspect of the project, it was a wonderful project to work on for the importance of making your stories your own, and telling tales about the place you live. 

Hamilton Christmases of my youth blaze in the warm details of where dinner was eaten and what toys Santa brought.  Though Christmas now is no less aglow, those Yule memories have begun to blur together like strings of bright lights seen at a distance.  Colourful and merry, they adorn a nostalgia that predates the days in which friends and I might have instead wandered the lower north-west streets, unscrewing and smashing them in early-evening fits of adolescent mischief.

 

                As Dylan Thomas wrote, “one Christmas was so much like another,” back then in our bayside mini-metropolis.  It could have been on the fifth day of the week and I was six, or on the sixth day of the week and I was five.  Regardless, it was Christmas Eve as I waited for the bus with my Mom, who had me capped and coated, anxious and excited, wondrously restless for the whimsy of a plump bearded man who would soon be crossing over Burlington’s waters to park on our Inchbury roof and climb down the chimney.

      

                Jackson Square, in my late 80’s childhood, was located on 34th Street, or at least, it might as well have been.  To me downtown was a bustle like any other big city, as at the time, I didn’t know any other big city.  For all I knew Ebenezer Scrooge had just, that morning, walked to work at his counting house located on Main St. East, and later that evening George Bailey might be found running through Westdale, screaming Merry Christmas at the top of his lungs.

 

                One thing I was sure of was that the glowing garlands that always hung under the fluorescent ceiling lights in the labyrinth halls of Jackson Square quickened my excitement for Santa’s impending evening visit.  And still did in later years, and still do today.

 

                With awe I stared up at them and at the store windows all around as I accompanied my Mom on a last minute Christmas shopping trip.  The loudspeaker music, the hordes of people, all a part of this holiday hypnosis, all stoking my exhilaration, all except for moments in the dungeon-like elevators of the old Eaton’s, at which point I’d bury my face in Mom's coat, waiting for the operator to announce the floor.

 

                Back in the mall, and dragged from the Eaton’s toy aisle - after failing in negotiations for a Green Lantern action figure - I would manage to persuade Mom to take me by the North Pole one more time, which in those days was in no fear of global warming, but actually existed rather comfortably in the south-west halls near Druxy’s.  My heart pounded as I caught the scent of chlorine from the indoor waterfall of the Standard Life building, for in those days, it too was located in the North Pole.  Passing the McDonald's I’d see the snow, plush and cotton, surrounding Santa’s triumphant throne, fake brick and beautiful, plunked in the middle of what was a fountain during the rest of the year.  He HoHoHo’d for the kids, asked those on his lap what they wanted him to bring that evening, and waved at the ones who could only stand by and watch.  He was less a sight than an experience, awash in the endless ovation of the crashing waterfall opposite him.

 

                We walked through the Stelco Tower lobby under an enormous wreath forcibly flattened against the wall and out the amusement park ride of an exit that are its revolving doors.  Out on King St. we waited for the York 8 bus as snow drifted down, gently but persistently seeking to cover white the grey-brown paste that had been made of its past fallen flakes.

 

                The bus' arrival was heralded by a shower of sparks from the overhead connection line, miniature fireworks that sizzled as they met the layer of snow that had fallen “deep, and crisp, and even.”

 

                The door jerked open and the ruddy-cheeked driver grinned at us.  We stepped on, we found our seats, the chrome-yellow bus jerked forward, and we made our way down Bay, dashing through the snow in our electric-cabled open sleigh.

 

                I studied and sized up our fellow riders, watching as they tugged the string for each stop.  On the edge of my seat I awaited Inchbury and York, my left hand braced against the window’s glass, my right reaching for the bell’s wire, steadfastly staring down any fellow patron that would dare ding the bell that my Mom had so clearly given me permission to pull.

 

                An old man at the back of the bus, plastic A&P bag in hand, mind absent-mindedly out the window, reached upwards as we moved west past Locke. His raised hand slowly moved closer to the cord, knotted knuckles unfolding long, crooked fingers that extended ever nearer to crushing every promise that the moment held.  My eyes welled in preparation for a tearful protest.

                “You can ring it now, honey,” said Mom.

                With untold speed and dexterity my mittened hand shot upwards.  I grabbed hold and yanked down.

                DING!

                Unphased, his gnarled hand dropped to his lap like a falling tree branch and looked forward to find me standing in my seat, defiantly staring as still I drew on the cord.  His wood-carved, weathered face creased in a smile and he nodded, accepting my victory in our silent duel.

 

                After dinner but before Alastair Sim was taught his business of charity, mercy and forbearance, my brother and I were allowed one gift to tide over our excitement.  We tore open the wrapping paper that always concealed action figures and played on the carpet in front of the TV until it was time to be brought to our bunks.  Here we made our annual, conviction-filled commitments to stay awake and catch Santa in the act of stuffing the stockings that hung at the ends of our beds.

 

                But we never did, and still never have.

 

                Friends had stories, and family too had tales of times when they had almost caught him.  Perhaps it was footprints stamped into snow covered rooftops, perhaps it was the sight of a red-coated back, quickly moving down a hallway to a sibling’s room, gift-sack slung over a shoulder.  Nevertheless, real, eye-witness evidence always remained tantalizingly out of reach.

 

                We knew it though, that he would come, that he did come, that he will always come.  We knew from our joy and his merriness, the elation in our hearts rising like his sleigh soaring over the Skyway Bridge, his magnificent reindeer running on the cold, Ontario night air, careening above and across Burlington bay.  The fires at Stelco and Dofasco blazed bigger and brighter than ever before, extending the warm welcome of our city, and illuminating it with the goodness and generosity that he brought.  The jolly old elf coasted in, rocketing over the moon and into the dreams of children and those adults with the hearts of children.  With a magic brush, the city was painted red, white, and jubilant.  It was Christmas.  It had come to Hamilton.  We knew it would, it did, and it will always.  We knew it.

 

                In spite of our solemn vows, my brother and I, as always, failed in our commitment to catch the elusive elf.  Alas, the sugar plums in our heads proved too enticing for us to be roused by the stomping and snorting of reindeer on our roof, the gift-filled sack scraping down our chimney, or the soot-covered boots padding down the hallways of our home as he set our living room alight with the big, red, merry ball of holidays.

 

                But as the wintry morning’s light reflected brightly off the blindingly new blanket of white beyond the window, we awakened.  Instantly, the knowledge of the date would dawn on us, a day more dazzling than even the morning outside.  Christmas!  At the foot of our beds our stockings were stuffed, brimmed and bulging with treats and trinkets, courtesy of that jolly embodiment of generosity who, like Polkaroo, we had missed again!

 

                Springing from our bunks, we would race down the hall and bound up the attic stairs to our parent’s bedroom.

 

                “It’s Christmas!” we would cry at 6:30 AM.  “Want to see what Santa left in our stockings!?”  They needed to see, they had no idea!

 

                After dumping them out on their bed and making a festive mess of things, we would be forced to wait at the top of our second floor staircase, while our parents, in the living room below, checked to make sure that Santa had indeed seen to loading the bottom of our tree.

 

                I can only assume.

 

                We fidgeted on the top step, knees knocking, pushing each other as we craned our necks to peer down through the glass doors at what incredible gifts may have been left!  Lightsabers, Skywalkers and Han Solos, Thundercats and He-Men, hockey sticks, Playmobile Pirate-Ships, socks and underwear – unfortunately - but then Batman and Joker, Spider-man, Silverhawks, COPS fighting crime in a future time, Bravestar, AirRaiders, Centurions, and Ghostbusters, Raphael, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello, Splinter and Shredder, and always, always, the firm denial that I had never asked for a She-Ra action figure.  Which, of course, I did not!

 

                At last we were given clearance to come down.  Our bums bounced off each step as, in our PJs and ninja crested housecoats, we took the stairs like some ill-made slide.  Banking off the wall and swinging from the bottom banister, we burst into the living room.  With eyes wide we would find Santa’s gifts aglow under the twinkle of the tree’s lights and the white, brilliant morning shining in through the bay-windows.  Flashes popped, paper was torn, and plastic blister packs created the trail of destruction typical of two kids on Christmas morning.

 

                Then after breakfast, with thick scarf-smothered mouths, snow-panted legs, and fearless hearts of adventurous fervour, my brother and I would venture out, trailing our Brett Hull-approved GT snow-racers while stomping down the street, the skis of our sleds scraping over the salted sidewalk.

 

                Meeting our friends atop the Dundurn Park toboggan hills, now forested and overgrown, we would talk toys, video games, and discuss whether anyone had seen Santa.  Several of us, of course, had.

                “I saw him putting gifts under my tree!”

                “I saw him smile at me at my bedroom door!”

                “He rubbed my hair, kissed me on the forehead, and said ‘goodnight!’”

                “I heard him on my roof, and then he came down the chimney, and then my Dad and Santa drank beer and watched TV, and then he left out the front door!”

                “You guys still believe in Santa?”

 

                One of us was now lost forever.

 

                Until midday, our crew of miniature Sir Edmund Hillarys would clamber up sled-tracked hills, building ramps to foolish heights and burying each other in small avalanches of snow.  We would push, shout and scuffle our way around those snowy peaks.

                “I bet you I could run up faster!”

                “I bet you I could go down faster!”

                “I bet you I could go off the jump higher!”

                “I'm going first, dummy!”

                “No, I am!  NO!”

 

                But he was already down, swift as an Alpine skier, and off the jump higher than I dared.  He lay at the base of the jump laughing.

                “I said I was going first! You’d better move, 'cause here I come!”

                And off I shot, down the slope, and straight towards him.  He just laughed.

                That was the year my sled met my brother's head.

 

                Once indoors again, after enduring the gruelling process of removing our Arctic gear, with boots confiscating our socks, or worse, leaving one dangling half on, we would be dressed in our itchiest new sweaters.  Our pale blue Mazda pick-up would be loaded with gifts, dishes, and baked goods and we would be off, heading east for family time.

 

                At Britannia Street, Nana J would serve tea, sugar cookies out of a blue tin, and talk about the Queen’s address as it was being replayed on CBC.  The old dog, Rupert, fully aware of the day’s high spirits, would sulk and scowl, responding to season’s greetings with a shrug, a roll of his eyes, and a low, back-talking growl that could only mean “Bah Humbug.”

 

                At Blenheim Drive in Stoney Creek, in my grandparent’s warm basement bar, the crackling of the fireplace competing with the crooning of a Sinatra record, Nana M would spoil us with stockings, sweets, and Coca-Cola in little cocktail glasses.  Granddad would be serving rum and cokes from behind a bar decked with shamrocks, church keys, and signs - “Kiss Me I’m Irish,” and “An Irishman is Never Drunk as Long as He Can Hold on to One Blade of Grass to Keep From Falling Off the Face of the Earth.”

 

                Then, as the afternoon grew late, it would be back into the pick-up, racing home down Burlington Street to make last minute preparations and greet family as they arrived for dinner at our house.  As the daylight faded, the sky blazed with the splendid festivity of early winter and seasonal merriment.  Hues of hot red and cool blue washed over the houses, the smoke and steam rising from their chimneys signalling the celebrations inside.  Lights flashed on in quick blinks of illuminated revelry, whites, reds, greens, purples, yellows, and oranges adorning trees, pillars, porch roofs, and wreathes.  Rosy-cheeked relatives emerged from cars with bags, serving trays, and smiles.

 

                Packed around a leafed kitchen table, crackers were popped, paper crowns were worn, terrible jokes were told, and small trinkets were compared as we took our seats.

                “What do you get when you cross a bell with a skunk?” bellowed an uncle.

                Silence.

                “Jingle Smells!”

 

                In the middle of the table sat the turkey, to be consumed with heaping amounts of potatoes and casseroled vegetables, cranberry sauce and stuffing.  Wine was passed around the table along with the titters of tipsy aunts.  Then trifle, pie, cookies, and a Christmas pudding cake, soaked in brandy and set alight, with a coin deep inside that one would find for year-round good luck.

 

                After the meal we sat in the living room by the glittering tree and roaring fire.  Upstairs, the TV would show a festive film to anyone who happened to meander in.  Sometimes It’s A Wonderful Life, sometimes White Christmas, sometimes, inexplicably, Return of the Jedi.  In the main room, Trivial Pursuit would prompt sibling rivalry among the adults and periodic accusations of cheating.

 

                The fire smoldered, guests dwindled, and as the night worn on, the day wound down.

 

                We bid goodbyes to our final guests from the front porch and watched them drive away under the dim-dusk orange street lamps.  Looking up, out into the Hamilton night, you knew the ghosts of Christmas were out, haunting us in reminiscence, of memories of friends and family, of kindness and generosity to those we know and all those we don’t.  These spirits rose up over the city, drifting over Barton, over Ancaster, over Dundas, over Flamborough, over King’s Forest, and over Glanbrook.  They sat on the edge of the escarpment and sang songs of the holiday with voices like the winter wind's whistling.  To some they sound forlorn, to others happy, and to others both.  Ethereal melodies of good times now past.  Past, but not forgotten, and always able to be recalled, touchstones that remind all to keep in their hearts a selfless care for their fellow person for all their days.

 

                On our father’s back we were taken to bed.  I was tucked in, kissed by my Mom, nuzzled by my Dad’s bulldog-bristle chin, and was asked, “did you have a good Christmas?”

 

                Prayers were said, and the light was switched off.  Beyond the bedroom window, and across Dundurn Park, the moon gave its good and gentle glow.  Amid such stillness, the city was silent, snow fell, a smile slowly faded from my cheeks, and I slept.

Travelling Through Time and the Ontario Highlands

The steps to the old Moran Inn and home, Calabogie, ON.

This past week my wife and I undertook a roadtrip across Ontario, a domestic honeymoon of sorts after our intimate July wedding, a responsible practice run for when we are able to travel internationally again. 

I will go more into this roadtrip in the coming little bit, but today I wanted to first zero-in on a key component of it that particularly excited me as we began planning the route; a journey both through what's known both as the Ontario Highlands and the Ottawa River Valley, and through the personal history of my family, centred in the small town of Calabogie, Ontario.

When I say small, there is a bit of a give and take for Calabogie. It's small in the sense that in terms of density, residents, and businesses, it's small. In terms of breadth of land, and variety of landscapes, and outdoor adventure opportunities, from ski-hills to lakes, rivers, bush and trails, it's vast.

In the latter sense, it mirrors the the broader region of the Ontario Highlands - inclusive of towns like Renfrew, Perth, Pembrooke, and more - the region is and feels vast. As we entered coming from the northeast and out of Algonquin, and driving through to the coast of Lake Ontario at Coburg, it felt gigantic and unending. Navigating our way on Google Maps, it was like watching an ant crawl across a parking lot. A perfect, wide, rustic and historical region to (re)discover - and the reason why the regional tourism bureau uses the apt tagline "Come Wander."

For me, personally, the history of the region was where I wanted to wander. Calabogie itself mirrors the history of the region, founded on rough farmland, logging, lumber, and wood mills, Calabogie and the Ontario Highlands are a far cry from the richness of Ontario's coasts, of the grandeur of big cities, or small towns boasting Victorian architecture and splendor in places like Port Hope to the Lake Ontario east, or Goderich to the Lake Huron west. Those places were where the money of Western Europe came to colonize and take advantage of the water driven commerce. The vast, hardscrabble landscape of the Ontario Highlands on the other hand, seems more like the place where those who were used to enduring came to survive, thrive, get things done, or otherwise keep to themselves.

And throughout much of the colonial history of the Ontario Highlands, the Morans were there.

It is a challenging thing to say "colonial history" given the truly harmful connotations associated with the term in the Canadian historical landscape. The "colonial history" of Canada was and remains harmful to the land's original, indigenous residents. 

The impact of the Colonial British conquest however, would have been far from the minds of the Moran family coming across the Atlantic from County Mayo, Ireland. Victimized by the British Empire themselves in their own country, their choice was either face poverty and starvation during the Potato Famine in the English dominated, mid-1800s, pre-revolution Ireland. Or face poverty and starvation in the back-country of an entirely new land, but at least on a plot that has been granted to them as their own by a colonial power. 

St. Gabriel's Catholic Church and Cemetery, Springtown, ON.

Essentially, risk dying at home on your rulers land, risk dying abroad on granted land, or risk dying on the journey between either. 

It was choices like these that drove brothers Patrick Moran Sr. and Owen Moran to leave Ireland and come to what would be Canada, settling on lands granted by a British Empire that was eager to populate areas that previously seemed undesirable to those with more money and influence. The roughshod, inland places that higher classes didn't want to bother with.

And the risks were indeed there. As I had been able to uncover with some of my early starts at researching the family journey and genealogy, after departing Ireland with their families sometime around or in the aftermath of the Irish Potato Famine of the mid-19th century, sadly Owen Moran died and was buried at sea during the trip over. 

  

The markers of Patrick Sr. & Mary O'Toole (with son Anthony) and Patrick Jr. & Catherine Guiney (with Patrick's sister Margaret)

Upon arrival, both families - Patrick Sr. and family, and the family of his departed brother Owen - settled in and around the area of Springtown and Calabogie. Patrick Sr., and his wife Mary O'Toole, my Great-Great Grandparents who were married in Ireland and brought their children over, not long after had their final of 10 children there, Patrick Moran Jr., my Great-Grandfather, and like his father, with whom I share a name. 

I'm still learning more about the family, both before the voyage over, and upon starting their new life in Calabogie, Ontario, so I will be revisiting this thread soon. 

However, what I do know is that the Morans became prominent members of the small community, and surrounding townships. Becoming farmers, politicians, and business owners. Patrick Jr. himself, my Great-Grandfather, started the Moran Inn in Calabogie with his wife Catherine Guiney and their children, including my Grandfather Bernard (1913-1989). Providing hospitality for workers, loggers, and "river-men," making their way through the province and finding work where they could across the early 20th century, sadly this Inn, and "ancestral Moran home," burned down sometime in the late-1970s or early-1980s. All that remains is an empty lot framed by a stone-wall and concrete steps to nothing.

Being such a young country, it may not occur to many, but outside of the developing larger urban centres like Toronto, Kingston or Ottawa, Ontario and the Ontario Highlands often had as much in common with the old-west as it did with modern Canadian history.  

Patrick Jr., for example, who passed in 1934, seems to be tied to a number of "old-yarn" type stories that I have yet to truly verify. These include boot-legging during prohibition, a potential murder in the town tied to "river-men," his fleeing the area for a period of time in connection to said murder, and the rumour that his nickname was Whistlin' Paddy, for which both the Calabogie Peaks Resort ski-hill is rumoured to-be named, and as a result, a former beer brewed at the great Calabogie Brewery. 

Last week, I was able to visit this region again, having been only once before as a young child. We excitedly explored the Catholic cemetary where multiple generations of my Moran family are buried, including both my Great and Great-Great Grandparents. We stood on the site of the old Moran Inn, and we had a beer at the Calabogie Brewery.

I look forward to revisiting, both in person to the community, and to this thread as I try to dig a bit more into my family history.

Four Years Falls Fast at Niagara Parks

Oh... So that's what it's like to spend four years working in a mansion that overlooks Niagara Falls.

Last month marked four years since coming to Niagara Parks as Senior Manager of Marketing, overseeing all branding, marketing strategy and communications, Travel Media and Influencer Relations, and so much more. With so much done, so much to do, and still more to go, time has totally flown by.

I came to Niagara Parks in 2014 after spending two and a half years as a Marketing Communications Specialist at Factor[e] Design Initiative (now Parallel).  Between the people, beer Fridays and office dogs, I loved my time at Factor[e] but as I came up on two years I was starting to think about how to move my career forward.

Also, as anyone who has worked agency-side can attest, and especially as someone who likes to be purpose-driven in their job, the fleeting nature of projects, spontaneous starting and stopping, a lack of creative control, can begin to wear away at enthusiasm, no matter how much you enjoy the place. 

Our 102 year old Whirlpool Aero Car.

So here was this job with a Provincial Agency, a sibling to the ROM, the AGO, the RBG and more. Here was a brand that had existed without a comprehensively flushed out identity since 1885, and boasted culinary, heritage, golf, retail, gardens and attractions experiences, with a large-scale brand redevelopment project as the most immediate task under this job’s portfolio.
A brand that represented one of Canada’s foremost travel destinations, with one of the world’s foremost natural wonders, with the ability to build a team and operate like an internal agency.

Essentially, it was 56 km, outdoor adventure museum, and we would get to head the project that redeveloped its identity and told its stories in a naturally and culturally authentic way. One that would likely contrast most people’s memories of the area, no matter how fond.

Imagine being tasked with reinventing the identity of Banff, or the Grand Canyon, or any international landmark. In fact, a common candid refrain of the marketing team when talking about how to truly position this international landmark with the respect it deserves was/is “WWETD?: What Would the Eiffel Tower Do?”

This was exactly what we were being tasked with. No matter what perception you have of Niagara as a region, or the falls specifically, this is one of Canada's foremost travel destinations.  It was now our duty to reinvent its brand, and position it in among these international treasures. Moreover, to make it distinctly different from either lasting impressions or existing perceptions of the areas that are distinctly not Niagara Parks (i.e. Clifton Hill, wax museums, etc.). To make sure that as many people's first true touchpoint with Canada, it represented that true north nature, culture, and experience in an authentic and exciting way.

Namaste Niagara at our Journey Behind the Falls attraction.

Across that time we’ve tackled, developed, or launched anything from the three year Brand Redevelopment Project (with support from the awesome Scott Thornley + Company), health and wellness series like Namaste Niagara, concert series like the Polaris Prize supported Niagara Stage, revitalized focus on digital marketing, enhanced travel media and influencer outreach programs, and as part of the broader Niagara Parks team, amazing culinary initiatives, new heritage stories better detailing narratives of diverse identities, national and international campaigns.

As a team (whether the extremely talented marketing team or the broader Niagara Parks team) we've had some amazing successes and innovative projects across that time, including:

• Substantial increases in visitation and revenue (we are a self-sustaining agency)
• Massive increases in digital community engagement (in 2014, Niagara Parks had approximately 10,000 likes on it’s Facebook page, less on Twitter, and no Instagram. We are now the regional social leader in travel/tourism, and among the top ten in Canada, and through our strategies have seen huge growth of over 2000% on our Facebook page, now standing at 270K likes with fantastic content and engagement all produced in-house)
• Enhancements in experiences we provide which have lead to provincial and national award recognition
• Comprehensive refocusing on local stories, from the culinary experience in our Feast On certified full-service restaurants (currently nominated for the Ontario Culinary Tourism Leadership Award), to Audubon certified golf courses, to the unique diversity in historical stories in the region, whether related to indigenous culture, European colonization, Underground Railroad, and more 
• Comprehensive wayfinding project updating all signage across our 56 km
• Extensive web-development (with support from Cinnamon Toast) and e-commerce work that has drastically enhanced our online presence and sales
• Working with the renowned Polaris Music Prize on a summer concert series, the Niagara Stage, that showcases the diversity of Canadian talent and identities
• Niagara Never Stops - a Niagara pride brand of apparel, produced by Niagara Parks with proceeds going to horticultural conservation work
• Draft Public Art Policy and initiated public gallery and large-scale art installation pilot projects
• Unique Travel Media programs like Culinary Crawls and Buffer Festival excursion days
• Compilation of an inventive Three Year Sales and Marketing Plan inclusive of individual Annual Plans
• Our beautifully in-house designed annual Visitor Guide
• And so much more with so much yet to come...

And that's exactly it, there is so much done, and never not something to do. As I look ahead to the next year I already see even bigger more exciting projects on the horizon, including large-scale infrastructure and development initiatives. As I start my fifth year and think about the future of my career, whether here or beyond, I know the experiences provided by Niagara Parks, whether marketing, strategic, natural, cultural, or culinary related, have contributed to my professional development, skills, and vision in a way I could never have predicted.

Cheers to four years!

The Darcy's, warming up for their Niagara Stage concert on Canada Day 2018.

Namaste Niagara

We're just wrapping up the third year of our Namaste Niagara series at Niagara Parks. As much as I am looking forward to having lower key Sunday mornings again, there are few better reasons to wake up early to work on a Sunday.

The Namaste Niagara series is about health and wellness in extraordinary ways, essentially the program is either yoga at our iconic Journey Behind the Falls platform at the base of the Canadian Falls, followed by an incredible brunch at our Queenston Heights Restaurant, or it's a guided meditation workshop at White Water Walk - where the Niagara River becomes class six rapids - followed by a brunch at our Whirlpool Golf Course Restaurant.

The program originated in June 2016, truth be told, as somewhat of a marketing stunt. We on the Niagara Parks marketing team were thinking of unique ways to photographically use our Niagara Parks sites and attractions - as we always found ourselves drooling over the active lifestyle shots found on the likes of Banff's or Travel Yukon's Instagram accounts. So we organized a morning yoga session and invited some travel and food media folks out try it and then enjoy a brunch.

We got the amazing shots we wanted, but even more we got the insistence from the media that attended that because it was such a cool experience we HAD to open it to the public. So we tried again in July, with the same schedule and tickets available online, and found we had both instant demand, and something very unique on our hands.

Flash forward to 2018 and we are doing the alternating yoga and mediation workshops with brunch to follow every Sunday this summer, and tickets sold out for all sessions in a record three hours after posting the link on our social media.

Despite the breathtaking health and wellness experience it provides participants, the program really remains a strategic marketing tactic. Given that the price tag for a ticket just covers any cost on our end, and that the capacity for the yoga is only 40 and meditation only 25, this is certainly not intended to be a money-maker. Instead, what it gives is more intangible, an entirely unique experience that shapes and boosts awareness of the Niagara Parks brand as we have worked to redevelop it over the past three years (more on that in a later post).

It tells a story of the exciting health and wellness opportunities available on our lands, of the cultural impact of the organization to the Canadian travel/tourism industry, and the brunch contributes to our culinary story. The Feast On certification that our Culinary Services have obtained, mandating that the majority of ingredients used in our restaurants are locally sourced, is a key point in our brand story, as it speaks to the authentic presentation of the Niagara river corridor that we strive to present to international visitors. It presents our guests with a true "taste of place."

And of course the online virality numbers from the images and videos posted from the series, whether by us or others, are also a nice little feather in our marketing cap.

Of course, we couldn't have done without the awesome program partners: for the yoga workshops that is Helena McKinney and her Hamilton based In Fine Feather yoga studio, and independent instructor Danielle Hulan. And for the mediation workshops, independent instructor Swapna Krishnamoorthy.

One more Sunday to go, and then that's it until Summer 2019!

The Niagara Parks Visitor Guide 2018/19

The 2018/19 Niagara Parks Visitor Guide, with minimalist,
die-cut cover.

Something I love working on with my team at Niagara Parks, our annual Visitor Guide publication.

Reintroduced as a free collectible at Niagara Parks sites in 2014, this guide is meant to be equal parts information guide, brand story-telling opportunity and promotional vehicle. In addition to distributing free throughout Niagara Parks, they can also be picked up at Ontario Travel Information Centres throughout the province, and we do a large inserted drop through a number of US newspapers such as the New York Times and Boston Globe, to their respective cities.

Our 2016/17 Visitor Guide, with adult colouring
book cover by Chelsea Peters Illustration

When the team first started working on these annually in 2015, we saw it as a great opportunity to do something different, if not disruptive.  Working in the highly photographic travel/tourism industry, and with one of Canada's most photogenic destinations, we have consistently taken the approach to have more minimalist covers, with the goal to stand out on Tourism Info Centre shelves where splash images would otherwise blend in like white-noise. 

Additionally, though print vehicles may seem somewhat outdated in the age of digital media, especially with "competing" guides often looking like flimsy magazines, laden with ads, the goal with ours has always been to make it feel as though it's something you want to touch, leaf through, and even collect year after year.  To achieve this we typically include no ads, with the exception of our sister provincial agencies, prioritize user-generated content for images, include interactive elements that reinforce the brand (such as site-sticker collection and note pages), and ensure the guide has a spine rather than stapled (print-nerd territory now).  It's classic "medium is the message," a creatively, uniquely designed, high quality guide speaks the same to the brand as we seek to better establish it (more on that in a later post).

2017/18 "Travel Journal"

As said, we love pushing the boundaries of its design and travellers' expectations for what a destination's  guide book can be.  Past guides have included adult colouring book covers, or designed like a beat-up travel journal to reinforce exploring Canada during its 150 celebrations (see pics above).  

Among the many cool things we did with it this year, and coinciding with the launch of the new brand, was including four specially designed "map art" pages. Featuring creative interpretations of what Niagara Parks is from Canadian artists both local and farther out.  All connected to the cover which depicts our actual geographic footprint as a provincial agency, and "56 km outdoor adventure museum" along the Niagara River.

Chelsea Peters Illustration

Grab one, or let us know if you want one mailed to you (yes, we do deliver).

Map Art featured by Chelsea Peters Illustration, Shaun O'Melia Design, ILikeMaps,Night Shift Studio

Night Shift Studios

ILikeMaps

Shaun O'Melia Design

Did I Last Post Four Years Ago? Yes, I Did Last Post Four Years Ago.

Alright, alright, alright.

So I've allowed a bit of lapse here and things have DEFINITELY changed since the last post.  Going to look to start to return to this more regularly.

Bear with me, I'll catch you up...

Forget Running When Training for a Run

The article below is written for the Around the Bay Road Race social media strategy, in preparation for the 120th Around the Bay Road Race in #HamOnt.

I should start out by stating that the following diatribe is by no means a professional opinion on effective race training.  I have been running since high school cross country, have done a number of marathons, half-marathons, a handful of adventure races, and soon, nine consecutive Around the Bay Road Races.  I have even managed to get relatively decent times.  Often in spite of myself.

Like most people, my running training has - and is - continually evolving through trial and error.  I can easily say that one of the biggest training errors I have made, once upon a time, was running, a lot.  I used to believe that to be prepared to perform well on race day, I had to be running consistently, and at consistently high distances.  What this lead to was plateaued results, IT band injuries, sore knees, poor agility, and terrible performance in other sports.

It was frustrating, although I would readily admit that I was only an amateur runner, I still could not understand why I was not able to get any faster and stronger.  In fact, I generally found that instead of getting better, my form and overall feeling would get worse.  More importantly, this "feeling worse" even extended to how I generally felt on a day to day basis.

This was until I actually put a bit more effort into researching the training techniques and approaches of different types of amateur runners.  I was intrigued, particularly with, say, cross-fit athletes, and the way in which many actually wouldn't run much at all (and certainly less than me), and yet perform really well (and certainly better than me).

Roughly 14 years since I first started running, if there is one thing I have learned about both feeling prepared for a race, and performing well during one, is how important it is to vary your training.  Moreover, how important it is to all but forget about running, and engage in other activities to round your body out.

Yes, running is still the priority preparation exercise, but whereas old me would have only focused on pounding the pavement, new me now only uses running to benchmark mileage, and to gauge distance capability.  Otherwise, in any given week, I will also do:

• Swimming.  I enjoy doing this for the low impact, the inherent refreshment and feeling of vitality, and the overall body work out. 
• Boxing.  I love going to McGrory's, at the corner of Barton and Sherman in Hamilton, and wailing on a bag.  Boxing provides great agility training (approximately 60mins of a 90min workout do not even involve punching).  As well it releases aggression and boosts confidence in a way running never can.
• Weight Training.  One of the biggest mistakes I feel like I always used to make was not properly integrating weights into my training.  Suffice to say, heavily weighted squats, deadlifts, lunges, and other compound exercises are among the best things you can ever do for yourself and your body. 
• Sprints, Stairs, Spinning.  These three are kind of a no-brainer, but still a lot of people don't do them like they should, myself formerly included.  

Since re-aligning my training ways last year, I have seen a great improvement in my running performance, and overall body feeling.  I am stronger, faster, with better form, and have happily achieved new personal bests.  More importantly, I no longer have to endure the mind numbing boredom of running long distances nearly everyday in the weeks leading up to a race.

Of course, I have learned all of this just in time for a new challenge, being 30.  Now I need to learn proper and effective recovery techniques for my no-longer-irresponsibly-20-something-body.  Wamp WAA*

Nine times around this, across nine years.