As I was writing the most recent Blog, I realized I had neglected to write about a sad and important event in our lives, the death of Charlie, our 14-year-old male cat. A mellow, loveable indoor/outdoor cat who thought he was a dog. He became great friends with Buster.
Charlie came to us at 6 weeks old along with his sister Tigger, originally to be barn cats. That soon changed. Tigger was cranky as Charlie was content. She disappeared four years earlier without a trace. Perhaps a fox.
Charlie was noble. We called him Sir Charles. He was a character. We had named him after Charlie Chaplin – being black and white and having a distinct moustache.
Here is a belated poem to honour the memory of Charlie, who is buried by a boulder in our north garden. A perennial flower bed is planted now at his grave.

Charlie the cat was tough as nails
He used to sit on the cedar fence rails
And watch in the grass for any trace
Of mice or a mole so good to the taste
He used up most of his daring nine lives
Well before he actually died
More than once he caused such distress
To dear old mother whom he tried to impress
With some dead carcass of rat or bird
Such shrieking of mother you never have heard.
We loved him so much and miss him a lot
But know by his memory he’ll not be forgot.

It has been a few years now since we have had our annual Winter Solstice Ceremony and party on our hill. As the cold of winter, and the harshness of a recession settle in, and after several lamentations by friends who had attended past events, we have revived the gathering again this year - but on a much smaller scale. Our last event saw 80 people gather. It was far too many to host. This year we have invited 30. All have been asked to bring a log for the bonfire and a bell to chime in the growing light. I have written a poem and so has another of our guests. A third person is going to sing a song. Another poem was on our invitation: I copy it here.

Come join us at Wind’s-E’e on the night the sun stands still
The moon will rise we hope, from yon dark eastern hill;
And though the night be cold, our bonfire crackles hot,
And if the air be chill, we hope our hearts will not.
For we will call the sun with voices loud and clear
To bring life to the fields and to us to bring great cheer.
And after singing loudly and imparting our good will
There’s wine and food awaiting at the house upon the hill.

Well, I am obviously not a professional blogger as it has been almost six months since my last entry. That could mean I have a busy life. I won't dispute that. I reluctantly agreed to help transform a wonderful children's story book about a caterpillar into a short Christmas play. - Well ,not precisely a Christmas play - but a Holiday Season's play. Then I was asked to be a consultant to the director of the play; so I attended the first read-through. Upon introductions, I was sheepishly introduced to the cast as the "Director". Okay, I thought, pretty sneaky but I'll go along with it. After all, it's only a short kid's play. It should be fun. The actors were all novices who had been told they had only one line, when they each had several. Well, there was some levity, but each rehearsal saw someone drop out for varying reasons - some good and some trumped up. There were rehearsals with half the cast missing. There were rehearsals with the lead missing. Then the important role of Narrator became compromised. The Narrator's husband died. I then had to step in as Narrator. The rehearsals became more and more frequent as nerves freyed. So far we pulled off a fairly good dress rehearsal in front of an appreciative audience of several children and more wanna-be kids. This is a one-off production and it is sold out. I am very tired.... and shall be glad to head to the pub for a post-theatre drink later this evening.

How does a sleepy little rural community achieve such unwanted notoriety? We have a magnificent countryside of mixed pasture, farmland and forest. We have near majestic hills and valleys that cannot but inspire one with awe. We have a quaint village with vibrant retail shops and enticing restaurants. We have a nearby winery that could be located somewhere in rural France.
Yet, it is the death of three young women in a tragic evening car accident, and within a very short period of time, the strange disappearance of another young woman in peculiar circumstances that have attracted national media attention. The car of the missing woman was found by a neighbour on a wooded road easement behind the farms that abut our hilltop century homestead.
It seems no matter where one is located, tragedy will happen. (So too, joy.) Whether it is the disorienting effect of the concrete of large urban centres or the apparent tranquility of country living, bad things happen to good and bad people alike.
Life is fragile. We cannot hide from the world’s realities. We must simply seize each day with vibrant appreciation for what is offered and what can be given.

A week ago we attended the funeral of a friend. Ron was a man who had seized life and squeezed every ounce of fulfillment out of it. He died too young, no doubt with some regrets; but more importantly, with pride, humour and acceptance of his fate. Ron and his wife had retired to year round residence (when they weren't travelling the globe) on our lake - theirs a grand home, ours a summer cabin.
Ron and my partner could have been twins in many respects, looks, exuberance, perpetual boyish delight in life, generosity of spirit and interest in the people around them. Perhaps this resemblance made Ron's death much harder for me to accept than otherwise. His illness came as a surprise. His death was quick.
The ceremony for Ron's funeral was on the foot-thick ice of the snow covered lake. The sun was brilliant; the day was moderately warm. A hole had been drilled in the ice for Ron's ashes. A potted pine stood next to it and a wreath of greenery leaned against it. A piper in full regalia (for Ron was a Scot) played traditional laments. And as we gathered somewhat solemnly, one of the guest's dog, virtually the same in size, colour, looks and temperament to our own Buster, whom we had left at home, came up to the tree, lifted his leg and peed on the wreath. Ron would have howled and so did we. Irreverent delight. Carpe diem.

Ode to a Gan Scot

I canno let the day pas on
Wi-oot a tak on Burns
This ploughman poet o’ suk gan song
O’ witty rhymes n turns.
A young man died this noble Scot
Wit sae many ta mourn his goin
But those he taxed he taxed a lot
Whilst misty winds thair blowin.
Some say he died ‘o fragile heart
And others say ‘twas lasses
Wha’e’re in death did play its part
We’ll raise our whisky glasses.

Today is our beloved dog’s 9th birthday. Just as women were once not considered to be legal “persons” in western society (and tragically still aren’t fully so in many parts of the world), our dog is not considered as a “person”. He is only legally our possession.

Yet these creatures, have intelligence, loyalty and feelings like any other creature. They can come to be as loved and adored as people and often are loved and adored more so, sometimes with good reason. To us Buster is very much a person, one totally dependent on us, and a real character!
Once a near-relative was very offended when we innocently compared the care of a dog to the care of children. We are childless and she, you see, has too many. But child-centred society is a relatively new phenomenon and so is the enjoyment of an extended childhood. Perhaps, one day, dogs will have rights beyond those of their owners. But rights are fragile. Perhaps if we are not careful, none of us will have the rights we once took forgranted. Happy Birthday Buster. Thank you for coming into our life as a very small puppy. Your spirit is as big as you are!

Who would have thought that a small community such as Warkworth, Ontario would have so many single malt scotch whisky afficionados? I certainly didn't.

Since I was 19 years of age, at a time when I was working and travelling in Britain, I have enjoyed the taste of Scotch. But in those days, it was the blended brands. Whisky meant sitting in a 17th Century Yorkshire pub, at a small table on a stone floor by a stone hearth with a hot fire and wearing a weathered tweed jacket. Very content, naively young, and oh so self-satisfied! Warm to the core despite the howling winds and damp heavy fog outside. And to this day it conjures such almost primaeval memories.

I did not discover the joys of single malt until much later in life when on an extended holiday in Scotland I sampled and relished The Glenfiddick for the first time. This was in a 13th century pub near my brother's magical organic walled garden. That was over 20 years ago now, and I was a poor law student who could not afford such luxury on a regular basis.

I can't exactly recall when I became a real afficionado of fine single malt and perhaps it is vane to claim to be one now . It was sometime not long before I turned 50. And for my 50th, we travelled to the Isle of Islay where we rented a magnificent 18th century Manse on Lagavulin Bay. The distillery was just a short walk away as was the ruined 9th century castle of Duneveg, hanging moss covered on a high crumbling cliff above the sea. It was on Islay that we sampled and grew to enjoy most of the 9 single malts of the island. Ardbeg, Laphroaig and Bowmore among the best. I think, although our tastes have grown, Lagavulin remains our favourite - and perhaps that too is as much attributable to the romance of that special vacation, - the long walks up bubbling moor stream beds, across peaty and heather laden moors, like the water that flows into the distillery there. And the wonderful pubs overlooking harbours and lochs filled with the rich musical and incomprehensible voices of Scots having raucous fun after a long day's work on a farm or fishing boat - or perhaps even in a distillery!

When I opened my shop 14 months ago, I put out a casual word to some other main street merchants and inhabitants that they could pop by on a Friday evening after business hours for a wee dram. Little did I realize how popular this would be. We are now anywhere from 9 or 10 up to 18 whisky-loving souls who gather for an hour or so to sample a different whisky each week. And then there are the occasional whisky dinners! Scrumptious and so inventive. We are self-named the Mill Creek Lodge Order of Afficionados of Fine Scotch or MCLOAFS.

Well, it is a fresh new year. I am sitting in my shop looking out across the merchandise and through the window panes where large flakes of snow are falling. I can't say the first 14 months of enterprise were profitable. Indeed, they were not. But I did learn a lot about retail and there have been many wonderful moments. I am actually quite proud of the undertaking, despite its financial inadequacies. I can only hope to see things improve in the coming year. If not, I shall remember why I took this risk: When our memories outshine our dreams, the end is near.