PAUL:	Well, I'm afraid the old shed is a thing of the past now ... 
	like the wasps. I did get out - man, it was a junior chemistry set 
	in there, heh-heh - and just as it looked like the whole she-bang 
	was going to go up, the arse-end of the first of our fall hurricanes 
	curled in over the hills and drenched the whole affair, turning it 
	into a sodden, smouldering pyre.  Here I am, none the wiser, a little 
	older, buffed, and bathed in witch hazel.

	Yeah, boarding up the summer shack signals, sadly, the close of another 
	season.

	But as with everything, it seems, when one door shuts, another door opens. 
	Amazing, hey, is that chemistry or physics ?

	So summer is over.  But now comes fall, with its pastel notes.

	Here in Nfld, we associate many sights, sounds and smells with the 
	autumn - the rotting verdure heaped in the fields and family vegetable 
	gardens;  the burning branches and stumps on land cleared for sods or 
	for the daughter's bridal home; the roaring moose stampeding along 
	genetically imprinted feeding trails right into the sights of an old 
	three ought three, the sharp, dry, blistering report, then the 
	nostril-searing whiff of gunpowder wafting through the forest;  the 
	scent of fresh warm blood rising from the killing grounds in an olfactory 
	tribute to the mighty beasts;  yes, it'll soon be time to pull up all the 
	potatoes, time to set your sights, time to tune in to The Great Eastern.

	We could be no happier serving as a mnemonic marker of the seasons for you.

	So, whether you're picking blueberries on the Cape Breton barrens, bottling 
	beaver in Bagotville, freezing char in Iqaluit, or campaigning for 
	clean needles in lower Vancouver, The Great Eastern is happy, proud, 
	thrilled to be back with you.