Windsee

2011-11-26T06:48:00.003-05:00

I have not previously used this blog for political or legal analysis. This is an exception.
When a judge begins a written decision with reference to the "Supremacy of God", one likely needs to understand something of the judge's personal belief system and history. However, it is not something that should enter into the judicial process at all. Then, for the judge to quickly contextualize it with a reference to a Constitutional dislike of anarchists and an implied equating of the occupiers with such despicable folk, one needs to read no further into the recent, tainted judgment of the Ontario Superior Court of Justice ordering the eviction of the occupiers.
What does the Supremacy of God mean in the context of our Constitution, which governs our secular society. It means nothing and everything.
It means Nothing because the concept of God is not constitutionally defined. And that is with good reason: For every individual there is a different notion of God, regardless of the fixed dogmas of institutional religions. It usually suits the needs of the particular individual or group at a particular time in the individual's life or the group's evolution. It too often is used as a justification for not assuming personal responsibility for one's decisions.
So if the Constitutional notion of God is, as I previously stated, both nothing and everything, in what sense is it everything? Within our Constitutional framework, our Charter of Rights is based on the notion of certain freedoms, including the freedom of religion. That includes the freedom from religion: the right to not believe in any particular concept of God or to not believe in a God at all.
The Constitution is based on evolving democratic principles. The Charter within that Constitution is premised on dignity of the person, fundamental justice and equality. So God in our Constitutional sense embodies the natural order and achievement of these goals. God is, if anything, the striving for "Good".
Then, the Supremacy of God is as much or more in line with the goals of the occupiers as it is with the goals of the various levels of government, the banks, financial institutions and the large corporate interests.
When dignity, equality and justice are on the decline, as is too strikingly evidenced by the quickly growing gap between the rich and the poor, the increasing levels of homelessness, "under-housedness", the diminishing availability of stable employment, the increasing reliance on food banks and other forms of charity by those who never dreamt they might have to do so, the increasing inability of the average person to access our judicial system, our educational system and our health care system, then the Supremacy of God is squarely on the side of these occupiers.
The Constitutional God is not housed in the ivory towers of Bay street, the naves of the Cathedrals, the chambers of the courts or legislatures. That God is housed in those who would stand up to injustice.

2011-09-15T14:12:00.006-04:00

Well here’s food for thought! My partner’s family, three generations of them, nine in all, descended upon us for four days and three nights. This included a brother and his spouse, three adult children in or approaching their thirties, two of their spouses, and two infants aged four months and three years.
Fortunately our home is large and there were beds for all. It was a wonderful laughter filled visit, which happily allayed the anticipatory fears of the hosts. It was a time for singing around the chiminea on a starry evening, swimming in the quarry, walks, bike rides, and gathering endlessly on the front porch overlooking the hills and fields around us. Collectively, we consumed twenty-two bottles of wine, one bottle of fine single malt scotch and a goodly portion of a fine aged Cuban dark rum.
We busily prepared the menu and the food so we would not be spending too much time in the kitchen and away from the hubbub once they arrived. We knew there was a vegan among them. We knew another one was lactose intolerant. We also knew the four-month old had been born with multiple food allergies and that this severely constricted the diet of the nursing mum. At the last moment, we also learned that another was on a strict diet, which involved no grains, no dairy, only certain nuts, and worse still - no alcohol. This person did eat meats if they were not processed. This provided a culinary challenge, but how much of a challenge had yet to be learned.
Upon an early rising, we concocted multiple salads in large quantities in advance of their late afternoon arrival. A salsa salad of fresh tomatoes, onion, cucumber, chickpeas and mango, was lightly tossed with fresh dill and basil in a refreshing white balsamic vinegar dressing. Chopped feta cheese was available on the side. A four-bean salad with fresh onion and cilantro was also prepared in a similar vinaigrette. A potato salad with a light mayonnaise dressing with a sprinkling of powdered mustard and complete with onion, red and yellow peppers, celery, (all finely diced), yellow beans and four chopped hard boiled eggs was tossed and sprinkled generously with fresh chives and parsley. A salad of black beans and corn kernels with chopped red onion, fresh cilantro, garlic and balsamic vinegar was a chef’s delight. And to satisfy the grain-free guest, we went in search of quinoa to make a tabuli salad. Bulgar and couscous would not do. Quinoa was not easy to find out here in the countryside, but we ultimately did - in a bulk food store twenty kilometers away. This was boiled and cooled and added to abundant chopped fresh parsley from the garden, onions, tomatoes, cucumber and chickpeas and then tossed with zest in olive oil and white balsamic vinegar with freshly diced garlic. A very generous chilled gazpacho soup was created from the finest vegetables for lunchtime indulgence. Humous, guacamole and black bean dips were made up as well as an organic salsa from local produce. Cheeses and paté were purchased. Breakfasts were planned with fruit salads (apples and pears from our trees, peaches from Ontario orchards and bananas and blueberries from who-knows-where), yoghurt, juice, and either fresh homemade muffins (made without butter), fresh baked croissants (made with abundant butter), home made fruit and nut loaf (also made without butter). Of course, coffee and various teas were always available. Together with the hamburger meat, veggie burgers and salmon burgers, the chicken breasts, pork tenderloins and salmon filets, the juices, spring water and wine and beer, we smugly felt well prepared indeed. And we were, - for the most part!
It turned out, however, that quinoa was viewed as a grain! Sigh. Later research indicated this was a debatable conclusion. And oh yes, our food-challenged guest could not eat anything with vinegar. Nix the salads – all of them! So a lovely black bean and corn salad was hastily prepared with corn kernels, fresh onion, tomato, cilantro and parlsey and a dressing of only virgin olive oil. At dinner we noticed that he had meticulously hand-picked every kernel of corn from the mixture and piled it on the side of his plate. This would have taken great patience and co-ordination; so is a feat to be admired. Oh yes, we learned that fresh corn is a grain too.
As it was three of the almost-thirtys’ birthdays within weeks of each other, we had a birthday celebration gathered around the table. This went on late into the night. There was a fine meal topped off with a double-chocolate layer cake and lactose-free ice-cream. And our food-challenged guest had two, albeit small, helpings of that devilishly delicious dessert! One could only laugh.
And laugh we did from morning to night for four days of endless chatter.
Our solitary lunch, once they had driven down the hill and out of sight, was a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a glass of milk!

2011-04-08T08:39:00.002-04:00

I was so disgusted at the lack of exercise I have had this winter due to snow, ice, frigid temperatures and a myriad other excuses, that when I saw that an elliptical trainer was on sale, I bought it. My partner and I had just brought it home in our trailer and, after carefully lifting the mighty beast down from its perch, we wheeled it to the only place we could easily bring it, - our studio office facing out a west window with a stunning view of the countryside. I knew it would be double the price in the fall when I will really need it. For all its marvels, there is a dirth of easily accessible gymnasia in rural Northumberland. I immediately programmed myself an exercise regimen to start off. It was for a thirty minute cycle .... After a labourious fifteen of them, with sweat pouring off me and heavy breathing heaving my chest, I decided it was enough for a first round. I had, after all - according to the screen - burned off 51 calories! So my partner, who was sitting in a distant corner at his computer paying bills, thought we should celebrate. We came across the courtyard and into the house to sit by the fire with a micro beer and potato chips!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now I realize that there is something quite wrong with this scenario. But life is made rich by inconsistency. Oh well.

2010-10-07T13:18:00.003-04:00

Well, I knew the closing of the store and the too many hours of retail boredom would mean more living and less time writing for this blog. I can't believe that summer has come and more or less faded into a magnificent autumn. The fire wood stacking is all but done. The gardens have yet to be put to bed. Indeed, remarkably, to date, we have yet to have a killer frost - or a frost of any significance really. That is quite unusual.

John and I spent much of the summer at the lake. Indeed, because we were building a bunkie, we were there much of June. It felt like we actually lived at the cottage for the first time, and only occasionally visited the homestead to tend the house and gardens or to work for a few days here and there.

Although we have been at the lake now for 24 summers, this year exploded into a round of socializing like never before. And of course, I had my new sailboat/rowboat, christened "Whisky". Sailing on our small lake is quite a task. Sometimes the wind will come at you from three directions at once, or just when you think you have a steady wind, it will trick you and come from an entirely different direction.

I capsized on the maiden voyage trying to dock on our point; and another time I was thrown out of the boat while I was rigging it. What I really enjoyed, and what I had initially intended to buy it for, was rowing. And that I did abundantly, tracing the perimetre of the lake and all its bays. Of course, we had our usual canoe outtings and kayakiing. At time it seemed like we were the only ones enjoying this pristine beauty: sunrises, sunsets, rainbows and magnificent cloud formations.

Since I wrote last, I have had my sixtieth birthday in May. And in the same month, we had a wonderful trip to the east coast, touring Cape Breton for the first, but definitely not the last time. The boat was my present to myself, built by a local boat builder. It is not grand, but it is a joy.

At forty I bought a motorcyle and at fifty I bought a Jeep TJ. In the intervening years I decided on a PT Cruiser convertible. What next?

2010-02-24T08:37:00.004-05:00

Trying to get into the Olympic spirit, John and I headed off to Ottawa this past weekend to, among other things, skate on the historic Rideau Canal.
First we had to rummage around one of our upstairs closets to find the skates we had not worn in 20 years – the last time being to skate on the canal in Ottawa after attending a Peace demonstration with younger friends. Finding the skates among the clutter, were tossed them into the back of the car, to be later dusted off once we had arrived in the nation's capital.
The canal was a beehive of activity. The weather was relatively mild for February. Skaters were both young and old. It was apparent that many of them had never been on skates before. That was reassuring. For never let anyone tell you that skating is like riding a bicycle. It is not. You do forget… or at least your equilibrium does. But before one gets there, I have to back track.
The skates were two decades dusty. But in dusting them off, it became apparent that mine at least had been home to one or more of those little creatures that cats love to bate. Not only did mouse droppings have to be shaken and brushed from the interior, but in doing so abundant bird seeds fluttered to the ground from the tips of the toes. Apart from this indignity, my skates appeared in relatively good condition. The blades were even relatively sharp.
John's skates evidenced little mouse activity. However, the faux leather trimming was cracked and split… literally crumbling to the touch.
Arriving at the canal from our hotel perched on the edge of the canal, we found a bench and proceeded to remove our shoes. It became readily apparent to me that my skates had diminished in size. There was no way my feet were going to be impressed into that small space.
John suggested that, like much of the rest of me, my feet had spread. How rude!
After some effort and considerable disappointment, my skates were clandestinely disposed of in a nearby garbage bin.
As John apprehensively wobbled off, I followed disgruntled in street shoes. Like a new born calf, John gradually gained his stride, his emotions passing from heightened diffidence to unabashed elation. But the distance to be travelled had shrunk in proportion to the increase in years. John was nevertheless proud and pleased as punch with his effort.
Not to be outdone, -I had told far too many incredulous people that we were going skating on the canal-, as John removed his skates, I placed them swimmingly on my feet. Yes, I would skate on the canal, briefly, uncertainly, but joyfully. John watched proudly from the sidelines.
Mission accomplished. Now, after discreetly tossing John's skates into a bin as well, a pint of beer was in order. We had skated on the canal!

2010-01-17T13:02:00.002-05:00

Buster died this morning at 1:00 a.m. after a brief illness. For the past 11 years he has been an integral part of our family. We miss him at every turn. It is the First Times that are the most difficult: the first time I dropped food on the floor - as I am wont to do - and he was not there in an instant to clean it up; the first time I woke up and he was not there to nuzzle me; the first time a squirrel ran by the window and he did not become Buster the Indignant; the first time we took one of his favourite walks and his paw prints were still encrusted on the snow covered meadow...

He has shadowed our every step; enjoyed our friends and social gatherings, loved the walks, the boat rides and country drives. He loved our home and our cottage. We are glad for the magnificent memories; but already over the past 2 weeks had come to miss his wagging tail and high energy and playfulness. Thank you Buster for being so loving.

2009-12-12T11:32:00.003-05:00

Whether I will have as much inclination to sit and write in my blog after the store has ceased operation remains to be seen. How wonderful, the sunny day, cold and quiet, witnessed across the counter and through the window panes. But if I did not write, I might go mad!

The orchestral Christmas music playing on the CD with background bird song, sleigh bells, horses neighing and barking dogs, places me in the realm of contented day dreams. I have puttered away at the displays, dabbled with bookkeeping and chatted with the too occasional customer.

Today I will miss an afternoon cocktail party; but will head off to a concert this evening soon after the store closes. My daily exercise was bringing in the firewood this morning and chopping the kindling so that the two woodstoves will keep the house warm on this chilly day.

My partner, will be happily at home baking for our seasonal entertaining. The house will smell of everything good. No doubt he will have our two seasonal trees lit, and choral music on the radio. Buster, will stay close so that anything that might drop onto the kitchen floor can be quickly licked up. He will disappear from time to time to bring out a different stuffed toy to paw and shake and lay on.

Does it sound too perfect to be true? It is everything I have written and more.

2009-12-04T12:09:00.003-05:00

Once again we approach the darkest day of the calendar year. The good news is that thereafter the days grow longer. Solstice is around mid-day on December 21 this year. We will have our Winter Solstice celebration on the evening of December 20. The event begins around a large bonfire in our paddock. We will be about 40 festive souls of all ages. Here is a poem I have written. There will be other poems read and songs sung.

Winter Solstice 2009

The days now are dark and dreary;
Though November remained so mild.
Our bodies have become too weary
With blustering winds blowing wild.

And gory news at every turn
The stories of famine and death
Tsunamis, quakes and fires that burn
Will take away one’s breath.

So let us gather around this flame
To kindle fellowship with friends
And burn the guilt and rid the blame
And heal whatever rends;

That as we call the sun again
To warm the soil and light our ways
To quick the seeds and soothe the pain
With the mystery of its rays,

We know we cannot stand alone
Or refuse the warmth that’s near;
For we are seeds that must be grown
By love and friendship’s care.

So stand we here this darkly night
To recall to our realm the sun
And let us smile by flickering light
And together have some fun!

2009-11-06T14:54:00.005-05:00

Ours is a small, quiet lake. We have had our Woodhead retreat for 23 years. Days can go by without a passing boat; then, it is more often a kayak that will glide silently by than a motor boat.
The loons often appear off our dock in the early morning, and at night we can hear their eerie call. I have seen moose and deer from our wooded point, and bear on the lane into our hide-away.
This summer, at a waterside market, I saw on display some magnificent hand-built wooden boats in the old Muskoka style. Most were well out of my financial range. One boat, however, caught my eye. It was a 10-foot wooden dorey – a row boat. Now, whether it is the romance of rowing in the morning mist, the thought of good, hearty exercise, or reliving my Henley rowing days, this was something I had always hoped I might be able to have at the lake.
The builder said he could make it into a sail boat for a very affordable price: two boats for a little more than the price of one.
Life is short. I take possession in a week. Of course it will remain in storage until next summer season at the lake. And I already feel like a child, too impatient for Christmas morning. It is my 60th birthday gift to myself; so if my 60th birthday must come, let it come quickly.

2009-10-30T09:52:00.006-04:00

In honour of Amanda, Warkworth's first annual Pumpkin Carving Contest was a great success. Although there were separate junior and adult competitions, the kids' entries were every bit as creative as the adults' - perhaps even better.

A video clip of the event is posted to YouTube.

2009-10-23T15:23:00.003-04:00

Another dreadful vehicle accident. - Another innocent person badly hurt. So many people now affected by an act of shear carelessness or reckless disregard for the wellbeing of others.
At least this vibrant person stands to recover, albeit after a long and painful period of multiple surgeries and rehabilitation.
Life is so fragile. We are all so risk averse.
Wonderfully, our small village has rallied again to offer whatever support it can. Waiting to hear how, what and when to offer. Feeling a bit helpless and inadequate in friendship.
I try to remember always to appreciate the moment as if it were my last. To stop in the chaos and find the calm beauty. It isn't easy. It is healing.

2009-10-09T13:51:00.004-04:00

October rainy day, the sort of day we fell in love with our soon to become home 16 years ago. Tomorrow, with the help of friends, we will be splitting wood for the fire. This wood is from trees that have been taken down on our property in the past 2 years. Since we have planted well over 50 trees these past 15 years, we do not feel as badly as otherwise we might that some noble giants have had their day, - as we all must.
Fall is a reflective time. So perhaps it is fitting that our grave markers are now holding our inevitable place in the tiny cemetery at the end of our road. How odd at first to see one’s name engraved in stone amongst the many stones that have stood there – some for almost 200 years. The previous owners of our homestead are amongst them. Indeed the cemetery is named after the original inhabitants.
October days are crisp or raw depending on whether there is the golden sun of autumn, or the wind blown driving rain that brings down the leaves. We must take them as they come. Yesterday was the former, and Buster and I took a long ramble down golden tree covered lanes under soft blue skies, picking delicious wild apples and brushing through fallen leaves as we went. Life is good.

2009-06-13T11:35:00.001-04:00

A Porch Song

The quiet chatter of those who know the knocks of years
And laugh with wonder that they have survived
The slings and arrows hurled their way;
And in the field they have even thrived
If the tales they utter are but half true.
They fully understand the clock runs down
And each ticking tock they will imbue
With life’s timid vibrancy to the end.

Only birds and cows were witness there
To harmless souls in friendship’s flight;
And if they drank too much and chortled loud,
Their grins were wide with eyes alight.
The aches, the scars are nothing then;
The pain and tears that carved their flesh
Are softened by the singing wren
Whose cheerful song says rejoice, live on.

2009-06-13T10:39:00.006-04:00

Brilliant day of soothing heat

wind blown ruffling canvas

and silent tread the passing feet

with the raw hum of space.

Chairs rock gently to and fro

The languid clerk paces

soft music on the radio

wishing time fast away.

2009-06-05T12:43:00.004-04:00

June 12, 2009 would have been my father's 100th birthday, had he lived so long. Regardless it will be the centenary of his birth in 1909 in what was then called Port Arthur, Ontario. (I am not sure I entirely approve of the renaming of commnities, or streets or buildings, that have had historical significance.)
One wonders if he would have approved of the world today - I fear not. I wonder if he would have approved of what has become of his children and grandchildren. It is impossible to say. But he was a conservative man and a man of honour, an Edwardian. No doubt he would have had difficulty adjusting to life's changing attitudes and behaviours. He might have despaired.
Regardless, a centenary makes one take stock of one's own life, especially when one has been a part of those hundred years for almost 60 of them! As my father aged, he became more eccentric and carefree. Perhaps he knew that he could do nothing to change the world any more, nothing to stave off the forces of development. I think I am already becoming a bit like that. It's not that I don't care any longer about the world and it's future. It is just someone elses's turn, someone who has more energy and idealism... the energy and idealism of youth.
On June 12 I will raise a glass to my father's memory, and I will relish my burgeoning eccentricity.

2009-05-30T14:17:00.003-04:00

After hearing on CBC radio the new CD of a singer-songwriter whom we had heard in a bar in Cobourg, Ontario, I had emailed her to say “congratulations”. Her name is Juanita Wilkins. My partner and I had first heard her almost two years previously.

Juanita wrote back and asked if we had ever considered doing a home concert. Odd, as we had only recently been exposed to the concept by my young nephew. He had informed us last summer that we had to go to hear a particular artist and that he was booked to do a home concert in a city near us. We went. We were thrilled and had since been to a second such concert of another well-known performer.
So we gathered together 30 friends and acquaintances who were willing to pay $20 each to attend our first home concert on 23 May 2009. The gardens were lush, the weather divine. Juanita arrived with her partner and another fine musician in his own right named Bill Candy. Juanita and Bill often accompany each other. And they arrived in party mode. So did the guests. What an evening. Everyone was thrilled. And the music continued well into the night.

2009-04-25T11:02:00.005-04:00

Soon very soon , I will enter my 60th year. I am a person who has had great difficulty adjusting to being older. Yet, too many of my friends died in in the 1980s and early 1990s in the prime of their lives - most from AIDS, some from cancer or accidents. They never had the opportunities I have had.
Ageing seemed to happen so quickly. One day, it seemed, my body changed and the person I felt I was was no longer the person I saw in the mirror. Regardless, I am grateful at least that the person I feel I am is still relatively vital mentally and physically.
Oh, I know I can no longer hike up high hills without becoming out of breath, that I can no longer work from dawn to dusk in the garden without aching relentlessly, that sitting at my desk for long hours of work causes me great discomfort, that visual accuity is lacking. But I still love challenges, and trying new things. I have less tolerance for people's follies - for precrastination, for excuses why things cannot be done, a greater desire to be with people who are keen and positive in their outlook.
As much as I feel I have a lot of living still to do, were I to die today, I would have no regrets - well, not about things left undone at any rate. I have experienced so much. I have a lot of gratitude that I have had interesting careers, travelled extensively - especially in my youth, and known wonderful people all over the world. Most of all I have had the most wonderful friend and lover in my partner of 27 years.

2009-02-21T17:44:00.005-05:00

On February 13, 2009, (a Friday), I attended an event for my best friend from high school. We graduated in 1969.

Although I have seen him periodically in the past 39 years, I would not say that we had continued to be close. However, his death in England a few weeks ago came as a shock and has saddened me.

After 5 years at high school, we took off to Europe together in early September 1969. We volunteered in a wonderful community in Yorkshire, travelled England and Scotland together, lived with friends in London, visited South Africa and skied in the Italian Alps.

But by February 1970 we had become estranged. Despite seeing each other and doing things together on occasion in the early 1970s, we never really connected again. I have tried to remember why. Now, so many memories have come flooding back, but I cannot be sure of their accuracy.

I thought perhaps it was because he wanted to be in the vibrancy of London and I in the pastoral splendour of the Yorkshire Dales. Or perhaps I was jealous of his friendship with my childhood and old family friendship with Jenny. Then again, perhaps it was because he was the more outgoing and debonair, the one everyone wanted to be with. I was the hanger on. And then, perhaps it was because I was, in an uneasy way, in love with him. Perhaps it was I who orchestrated our going separate ways. Memories tell me it was because he used to put me down, in a humourous, off-the-cuff sort of way. I really cannot be certain these many years since.

I last saw him briefly, very briefly, in the late summer of 2006. He came for lunch. He was very late. He was very distracted. He looked drawn and unwell. He was sad. Recently he had separated from his wife of many years. He was in financial difficulty. When we said good-bye, I thought it unlikely I would see him again. I did not.

I did not know he was very ill, that he was in fact dying. Neither did he until shortly after this last visit. My emails were ignored. My one letter unanswered.

There are so many good memories. So many unanswered questions. He was not one to share his innermost feelings. These have gone with him to his grave.

2008-12-19T14:07:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-12-19T13:34:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-11-29T13:17:00.007-05:00

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.

2008-06-07T13:50:00.002-04:00

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.

2008-04-05T12:47:00.003-04:00

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.

2008-01-25T14:48:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-01-12T10:55:00.001-05:00

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!

2008-01-11T13:25:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-01-05T12:31:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-06-15T11:11:00.000-04:00

Is it the cow's in the meadow and the sheep's in the corn or the other way round? Anyway, life is never dull in the country. Once I had to chase escaped dairy cows out of the neighbour's corn field. They were feasting on the sumptuous young corn tips. My dog Buster and I ran to the middle of the field. Buster is not a herder but he thought it all great fun. Meanwhile I ran about with a bum leg and a stick and he just ran about barking and wagging his tail and occasionally looking at me for approval. The cows knew exactly how to run home. They weren't lost at all. They knew where to cop a good meal that's all! Eventually, having enough or our silliness, they hi-tailed it off through the field of young corn down the hill and to the barn where they were awaited for milking.
Another time a peacock appeared in all its glory on our lawn. Where it had come from and where it disappeared to I never learned. But last evening, as I reclined after a day's garden labour in the hot sun, with an ice pack at my back, I could have sworn I heard a lamb bleat. Then I convinced myself it had been some trick of mind. I drifted off and sure as I was breathing, I am sure I heard another bleat. I looked out, saw nothing, looked again and then went to sit down. Buster, lying at my feet looked at me in quiet expectation but eventually curled back down on the cool floor. Then more bleating. But I had seen a grackle fly by the window - Ah I thought, these troublesome birds may be like the raven who can sound like other creatures. That had to be it. Then louder bleating and Buster perked up and dashed out the screen door with his fur bristling. I walked out after him and walked about and looked over the hill. Nothing. Buster ran about sniffing in vain. I walked around the outside of the house and as I rounded the front porch two brown goats ran toward me! They were tame and friendly and very lovable although Buster got his testosterone in a knot (Do dogs have testosterone?). Eventually he calmed down and the beasts sniffed one another. They fortunately had green collars on and so I was able to lead them to the potting shed whilst I figured out what to do. I called our neighbour who had lived here all her life. She called about for me and in short order discovered these creatures had escaped from a farm further down in the valley and around the bend only 2 kilometres away. The owner arrived shortly and gratefully took the intruders home.
Life is never dull in the country.

2007-06-09T14:13:00.000-04:00

A funeral of a young man who has taken his life
With no warning signs of unabated internal strife
Has brought out a town to sadly wonder why
A young person in full flight would want to rudely die.

And wonder confused is all that the people can do;
A hundred reasons to ponder or only a few.
What dread secrets were hidden so deeply within?
What lost cherished dreams or desires that were dim?

Was he too fragile to awaken his candid self ?
Had he been robbed of some deep inner wealth?
Was he denied the vital face of fulsome youth ?
Tragic the slaughter of prospect, the buried truth.

2007-05-18T15:04:00.001-04:00

MacBeth thought trees were a threat, but apart from Shakespeare's evil character I would not have believed that trees were a menace outside the imaginings of a deranged would-be king. Alas, our mayor shares MacBeth's neurosis and is determined to chop trees down along our pristine rural roadsides.
The same man who would say "Guns don't kill people, people do", is speaking out of the other side of his mouth when he claims people don't kill people, trees do! It seems roadside trees are a liability this rural municipality cannot afford.
If public outrage does not muster, then our beautifully canopied backroads will soon be decimated. This in an era of environmental concern. What of the endangered wildlife and the precious fauna that nourish there? What of the roots that keep back erosion and the canopies that shelter the roads from the destruction of wind and rain and sun. What of the arborial borders that keep top spoil and snow from drifting? And what of the attempt to make this a tourist destination, a destination sought out because of its natural beauty and rural charm. Without any evidence to support his aim - at least evidence that has been disclosed to the public, the mayor plans to bulldoze on.
There is only one thing worse than arrogance in a petty politican, and that is arrogance combined with ignorance.
But now some farmers are saying the tree huggers don't know what we are talking about because we a city emigrees. Well there have been plenty of farmers in my ancestral lineage and are still today. And those who have been true caretakers of the land have known for centuries the benefit of vegetation along the edges of fields and roads.

2007-03-21T09:14:00.000-04:00

The Slippery Slope of Country Living: Well some stories just have to be told, even if they aren't about big events in big people's lives. A recent February night was no exception.

I had left my car at the Oshawa dealership near the GO station for routine maintenance and taken the train into the City for work. It was mild. Upon returning to Oshawa at 7:00 p.m. in a heavy downpour, I walked under a too small faded red umbrella to pick up my vehicle, which, it turned out, was not ready and which, it also turned out, would not be ready until the next day. They were happy to provide me with a small courtesy car for the long trek home on wet and slippery roads in the sheer dark... but only after I had signed a contract with a $1000 deductible insurance coverage. What is a wet, tired lawyer to do in such circumstances when there is no one to feed his beasts, my beloved partner being on a beach in Cuba? So I signed the form, but, being a then grumpy lawyer, clandestinely snuck in the precursor to my signature that said "under duress". This went unnoticed.

The 100 km drive home took me off the main highway much earlier because it was far too risky a course. As I progressed north and east, the roads became more and more slushy, although the rain did not appear to be icy. Proudly, after a painstaking journey at a mere 60 km per hour, I saw the cemetery that marked the intersection with our welcoming concession road. I signalled, stopped, and cautiously turned the corner beginning to climb the gradual incline that is our gravel road, often more pothole and mud than gravel. I was greeted with a headlight glistening skating rink of sheer ice. The car's meagre tires began to spin, coaxing the tiny vehicle to a halt, but not a true halt because, by Newton's law, it began to slide backwards. This was not enough. It then, because of the contours of the road, slipped sideways into not so much a ditch as a soft, muddy, slushy shoulder. There it was, embedded as the rain, relentless, pelted down. Reluctantly, I gave up trying to cajole an unwilling and incapable mechanism onward. I saw the welcoming light of the neighbour’s farm ahead ... but this was not a night to bring anyone out from the comforts of home – and to what end? Home was only a short walk away.

I opened the car door and warily put my feet down. Then, on standing, I found myself in full human splendour, sailing quickly down the road before scrambling cartoon-like and falling soaked to the icy surface. In the kafuffle, my ancient umbrella blew away. What to do? Only one thing: Walk the insulting one kilometre distance to our hilltop house. But how? Not on the road which forbade balance. Yes, only in the muddy, mushy ditch edge could I get any traction.

Wetter and wetter, I decided to cross a neighbour's hay field to our house. But then, in the sheer dark, with the howling wind and the pelting rain, I recalled the fine, noble, hungry and too bold wolf that had walked past our kitchen window the weekend before, and I heard in my memory the yapping of the coyotes that had wakened me but three nights previously. This wasn't helped by a recent conversation with a friend about the discovery of a deer carcass, eaten clean, or the fact that my dog had proudly found antlers buried in the remaining snow on our last walk. Now every crunch of the snow became the trail of the hunters, and I was the hunted. I started to run and, in what seemed endless plodding, came to the edge of the field on the other side of the road from the house. I gingerly tested the road and quickly repeated my previous downward descent. Crash. Knapsack flying. Despite the humiliating prospect, only on all fours did I make it to our side of the road and after a number of graceless slips, I managed the final ascent to our door. Having barely escaped the clutches of some chop licking, eye glinting carnivore (or so my rocking chair story shall go), I was greeted by a face licking, body wiggling, tail wagging and very hungry dog. The sanders came in the night. The early morning road was less ice than slush. At 6:30 a.m. I hauled the heavy ash can with its ashen content the one kilometre down the road, and with almost too great and too insulting an ease, drove the tiny car home.

2007-02-24T10:38:00.001-05:00

A new business has meant I did not get to take a southern vacation this year. Alas, my beloved partner has eagerly kept me apprised of the warm sunny days on a Cuban beach and the jaunts in and out of that jewel of a city, Havana.

But winter in the Ontario countryside has not been at all unpleasant, although we have had the long and bitterly cold days. But these have brought the crystal blue skies and resilient freshness of a clean and invigorating air. And we have had little snow, but just enough make the hills and fields dance and to remind us that it really is winter. Not a bad thing in itself.

However, managing a household of demanding pets, coping with a herniated disk, dealing with hungry wood stoves, balancing two careers and rehearsals for 2 one act plays, the performance of which is too quickly approaching, has perhaps meant trying to juggle a little more quickly than my dissipating co-ordination would handle . This is why I am typing with a finger bound and pricked with 8 stitches. All for a vegetable stew that I would not eat. A kitchen can be a dangerous place when one is too distracted. And had it been the chain saw then I might not have been here at all.

2006-12-03T12:11:00.000-05:00

One quickly learns that retail is not a "nice" business. Already one other area retailer has put the screws to one of my suppliers and they have discontinued providing me with their wares. My aim had always been to complement and not compete with other village businesses. I thought that if I stayed away from the items other shops sold, I would find my own niche. It seems the retailer now sees my niche would do well in her store. Some of her wares will do equally well in mine. I will now fight fire with fire.

2006-11-05T11:52:00.000-05:00

Well, just when things were settling into comfortable normalcy, with gentle and predicable country semi-retirement, I happened to get the idea to open a shop. At 36 it may have been understandable; at 56 it is more than a challenge. Still, predictability can be tiresome and the notion of gliding into old age did not sit well with me. Even if the lifting and grunting is more befitting a younger frame with greater agility and strength, and the standing for hours on end is something made for youthful feet, I shall be glad I have undertaken this venture, if only for a while.
Mill Creek Lodge, rustic accents is my concept but has only been made possible with the support of a life partner.

2006-09-13T13:02:00.000-04:00

Well summer has come and, apparently, gone. We had a wonderful time at our cabin and now life has become hectic again. Here's what I have been up to:
An exciting new shop will open on Main Street, Warkworth on 1 November 2006 in the beautifully restored former Orange Lodge (c. 1860) across from the village bank and Town Hall. Seeing its potential, the building was purchased by its present owners, John Saynor and Paul Rapsey, in 2003 in the midst of its complete restoration by Mark Keiffer of Keiffer Homes.

"Mill Creek Lodge, rustic accents" will sell primitive wooden furniture, rustic furnishing accessories and some apparel.

New business owner, Paul Rapsey, says the idea of opening a retail store has been "milling about" in his head for some time. However, it was only this summer, while sitting reading on his dock on a wilderness lake, that he was catapulted into action. The book, says Paul was a dry tome of 600 pages by Thomas Friedman, an award winning American journalist. It was not usual cottage reading. However, one brief part of the book caught his attention. This was written in the context of countries and corporations resting on their laurels. In particular one sentence stated: "When our memories out-number our dreams, the end is near." Paul took this as a personal call to action. He decided it was time to re-invent himself at 56. Now or never. The concept of adding a new career to his accumulated list of careers including caterer, professional actor, social worker and lawyer was not a new one.
With the guidance of a number of established retail outlets, Mill Creek Lodge hopes to compliment rather than compete with the other vibrant businesses in Warkworth.
So Paul invites the public to start with admiring the view on a bench at Mill Pond and then to browse the busy commercial main street ending with a leisurely stroll on the wonderful Mill Creek Trail. To adopt and adapt a well-known catch phrase of the Hyde House in Acton, Ontario: "Its worth the walk in Warkworth".

2006-06-09T08:17:00.000-04:00

Some things do change. In the 1980s I had stopped wanting to go to Quebec. People were rude and unwilling to speak with you unless your French was impeccable in a Quebecoise way. That was not what we found at all on this visit. People, especially young people, were almost too willing to speak with us in English once they determined we were not francophone. And they were extremely welcoming. Nevertheless we attempted our rusty French as much as we could.
Our apartment was in the old City and within the walls. Not only that, it is was only a few steps from the ancient street where my Quebec friends had lived in the 1960s - I shudder to think that was now almost 40 years ago! We had a marvellous time walking and pretending this was our City. And the food!

2006-05-29T08:40:00.000-04:00

A City with History: Tomorrow we drive off to la vieille Ville de Quebec for a conference. This is a City with a large history of its own and which has also played a big part in my personal history. At 18 years of age I had headed off alone to a grand old hotel on the North Shore of the St. Lawrence River to work during my summer break. I was about to enter my senior year of high school - grade 13.
It was on the train heading east out of Quebec City that I met the man from Montreal with whom I would have my first sexual encounters. It was with young vibrant Quebecois working with me that I spent a great deal of time-off in the old walled City.
This was the summer of Pierre Elliott Trudeau, the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia and of the Quebec separatist flourish. We were all would-be freedom fighters, dreamers and laughing, intense philosophising youth. It was a summer of happy love and induced shame that would keep me closetted for a number of years yet. But six years later it was a Quebec City, Roman monk who would bring me joyfully out again and encourage me to live my life with integrity.
I have not visited this walled City for over 27 years and I go now with my lover of almost 25 years with vivid, lingering memories of anything is possible.

2006-05-19T08:09:00.000-04:00

Well, another birthday has come and gone - but, since we tend to celebrate birth-months, I still have a few more days left to be pampered.
We are about to head into the garden to see if we can't get the major weeds under control. The gardens are lush and all the blossoming trees and shrubs have and continue to put on a banner performance this year.
Everything has grown exponentially... except for the prize apple tree that the tumbling 90 foot high spruce took out in a storm this past winter and the 2 other apple trees the rabbits killed by eating the bark.
We opened the cabin for our 20th season last weekend and nearly got carried off with the black flies. The docks were much harder to deal with than usual - either because of the age of the docks or the age of ourselves. In this vein, several years ago we went to arrange for friends to stay at the German woman's B&B on the far point across the lake from our cabin. She did not seem to remember us and asked where our cottage was. We told her and she replied: "Oh yes, that was the one the two young boys used to own."
Sheesh....

2006-05-11T08:23:00.000-04:00

More Milestones: In an hour or so we are about to head off to our cabin near Parry Sound for the opening of our 20th season at the lake. The car is almost packed and Buster is eager to hop into the space prepared for him. It will be time to put the docks in, uncover the canoe and kayaks and to prepare the outhouse!
Tomorrow, will be the 50th anniversary of my arrival in Canada via a 5-day ocean crossing on the HMS Britannic to New York City with my family and then an overnight train to Toronto:1956. Then in a further four days I will be 56!

2006-05-04T08:09:00.000-04:00

Today is our 24th anniversary and the start of our 25th year together! Despite societal obstacles, we have fashioned our own way - and are so glad we did. We have a better, fresher, and more vital relationship because of it. We did not try to fit ourselves or each other into a pre-ordained mold.

2006-04-29T12:21:00.000-04:00

Spring is my favourite time of year. The brown of late winter has turned an invigorating green. Each morning the robins' song wakens us and each night the peepers put us to sleep. The trees are fat with the expectancy of new leaves. The forsythia that have sparkled with vibrancy for several weeks have lost only a little of their intensity. The lilacs are already teasing us with the first hints of the flowers and rich aroma to come. Some daffodils have already faded but others are still in full bloom and the tulips are just beginning to show hints of their many rich colours. Blue birds have nested in one of our houses and swallows in others.
What I enjoy about our garden in particular is that it is made up of mostly perennials. However, I spent much of yesterday digging in the earth and planting some annuals - a variety of sunflowers that will hopefully stand from 3 to 14 feet tall this summer if the seeds do not become a feast for the birds.

2006-04-28T09:23:00.001-04:00

All this talk of capturing critters reminds me of another incident. But, I am not the only one who is a disposer of unwanted and damaging wildlife. Now don't get me wrong, wildlife in the right places is fine with me - indeed I love nothing better than watching an abundance of nature's activity in the fields and bush around the house and outbuildings.

Buster the Beast - What is one to do when, lying on a Friday rainy evening by the fire, one hears a bang and then a crashhhh coming from some undisclosed location in the silent house? It sounds like a picture falling off the wall or perhaps the wind knocking the swing against the front porch wall. Then another bang more resonant than the first!... Perhaps the ironing board falling from it's reluctant perch on the basement stair wall.
Rising from my reclining position I make a hasty tour of the house, room by room, floor by floor and not a thing seems amiss. Then back to the couch - had I dropped off, was I dreaming.... Craaaashhhhhhhh! The Garden Cottage!
What burglar had entered while I dozed? Why are the cat and dog so somnolent? I enter the adjacent wing timidly. Sooty footprints are everywhere as are little black droppings of apparent excrement. The clock has been knocked off the desk and is lying in the middle of the floor. A crystal is lying next to the lamp from which it once hung .... the dried hydrangea has crumbled... a sterling inlaid glass dish is lying in a thousand pieces like tiny diamonds next to the fire place. The fireplace door is ajar.
Suddenly, taking me aback with a silently uttered scream, a small, black, furry creature flies around the corner and tears by a cowering me into the bedroom where it tries to climb the newly painted wall and pass through the closed window. Slam! I close it in the bedroom, fearing that it might jump up into the loft to escape further detection.
"Buster!", I call.
"Where are you when I need you? And Charlie, where is your feline hunter instinct? Are you too well fed? Buster, come here, Buster, come..."
I hear the click, click of his long nails against the wooden floor in the room next door... Once in the bedroom, Buster's hair bristles. No more the domestic, sleepy dog. No more sloppy, playful pup. Frozen, he stands - Majestic! The Beast emerges! I quickly close the bedroom door again. I leave the two black creatures to face each other as if the room were a primaeval forest. I go in search of a broom. Yes, a broom!
Returning not more than a minute later, I hear.... nothing... -- no thing.... -- nought! I slowly open the barrier between cottage and woods, and there stands the black brute, squirrel clutched in his mighty jaws, hair bristling on his noble back, shaking it viciously from side to side to side. He bounds past me, lest I scold him or worse - take his toy, out of the bedroom he races with his catch. He bounds further, out of the Garden Cottage and into the main house. I bound after him , much less gracefully, and head directly to the back porch door. I open it quickly and he runs out before I can catch my breathe - black with black disappearing in the black rainy night...
Time passes. I hear the rain on the roof. Later, I wonder where is my dog? I peer out through the rain drenched window across the drive to the distant lawn... There lies the shadow of a dog, who does not like the rain, just a dark shape in the dreary night, soaked, proud, stretched full out, playing gently with his prize, now presumed long dead.
Still later, I go out to see if I can coax him inside so that I can go to bed... He stands. He nuzzles the ground. He holds his head high. I hear the crunching of tiny bones... crunch, crunch, crunch. He stops. I hear the smack of contently licked lips. He looks at me not knowing if he has been bad or good. Buster wags his tale and gives a frisky wiggle of his whole body and comes obediently into the house. A very exhausted hunter is soon snoring.
Next morning I returned to the scene and found only a very wet and motley tail.

2006-04-27T13:35:00.000-04:00

Well, life in the country continues to be wonderful. Last Sunday we burned a very large pile of lumber debris from the construction work that is going on here right now. Our lower field is where we usually do this sort of burning and it is usually brush from our property. I like to do it in February when there is snow on the ground. However, we had had plenty of rain and the hay field was not yet too long. It was a perfect day - cool and sunny. And while we were at our task, a group of horsemen in full English Hunt regalia and a pack of well behaved hounds rounded the corner and trooped by. This is not an everyday event but it does happen from time to time. In its way, it was as wonderful as seeing the deer in the fields, or a majestic loan wolf bound along the fence line or even the flock of very large wild turkeys strut on the far hill.

2006-04-21T10:32:00.000-04:00

Happy 80th Birthday to a great lady! Great hat too!

2006-04-20T08:48:00.000-04:00

Masked Marauders: The recent skunk story reminds me of another story that took place here shortly after we had moved from the City. At that time our outbuildings were in much need of tender loving care. The former horse barn, which is now our office, had recently become the cat house for our two kittens, acquired to keep the rodent population at bay. Soon however, we noticed that the young cats would look in terror at the building and would not go near. We discovered an infestation of racoons that had become aggressive squatters. It was then that we acquired the live trap. And the more we set it, the more we caught – nine in all!
Racoons are not like skunks and could be easily transported in the back of our then still urban cars to distant and isolated locations and this is what we did… However, one occasion caused my heart to race. Now these live traps are rectangular in shape , just over 2 feet long and just short of a foot high and wide. They are made of a strong wire mesh and have a wire door at one end and a small door at the other end on top for dropping feed onto a tray beneath. This door is about 3 inches square and is locked with a small wire hook.
At the time I had an old manual transmission Hyundai Pony, a hatchback missing the cover between the trunk and the cabin. It was my trusty tractor and my pickup truck. I had caught what turned out to be the last of the nine marauders and set the trap in the hatch and drove down our lane to the pothole ridden concession road below. Shortly after heading onto the road I heard banging coming from the rear of the vehicle. I glanced over my shoulder, smugly knowing the banging was in vain. The banging persisted and there was a definite sense of heaving. I slowed down and looked in the rearview mirror… to my surprise a furry arm was sticking up through the small opening. I smiled, convinced that there was nothing to worry about. But, a doubting Thomas, I glanced back again. An arm and a nose. The car proceeded at a slow speed … an arm, a nose a head … I geared down further… The cage wiggled and the racoon wriggled. Two arms, a nose, a head, and a substantial portion of the body … I was sweating. Then terror! – The racoon was climbing over the back seat… By then the car was in first gear, the driver's door open and I stood dusty on the gravel road watching the car chug forward driverless and hiccupping to a desperate stop. The racoon paused, looked out the window, climbed onto the driver's seat and then out the door and scuttled past me contemptuously up the road back to our lane, up the lane and back to the horse barn. Fortunately no one was about to see my bewilderment and frustration.

2006-04-19T13:05:00.000-04:00

Rural Life: I am suffering from a lingering cold. It is the fault of at least one skunk. But it turns out there were at least two of them. And together they made an amorous smell under the Garden Cottage sunroom. Many attempts to scared them out with loud rock music, or blocking holes failed. If you have ever lived with a skunk you will know why they are not a good thing to have around – especially if you have an inquisitive and stubborn dog. An attempt at live trapping the beast(s) made for well-fed beasts but empty traps. Therefore we called in the pest control – not a very well organized one. But they did have the magic trick – marshmallows! Yes skunks love marshmallows. They caught the critter, but were not wise enough to think to cover the trap. Skunks are docile in traps unless they can see you. So the pest control officer got sprayed and so did the wall of the house. But they took away the cute little thing and that cost us $160. The next day they returned to secure the premises with buried chicken wire… To our surprise, that cost us another $160! I think we were taken to the cleaners, only it did not get rid of the skink smell. The next day I discovered there was another hole. I covered it. It was uncovered and the hole got bigger. Not to be short another $320, I bought marshmallows myself and got out our own trap. One needs such a trap when living in the country. Being wise I set the trap away from the house and planted a trail of marshmallows right into the cage. The skunk loved the marshmallows but did not set off the trap, I presume because it merely reached through the wire for its after dinner treat. So I moved the trap back close to the house and too close to a stone wall for it to reach in from the sides. I then covered the trap with a blanket and re-planted the bait… Alas, the next early dawn, I snuck around and found the door closed. The captive was docile and heavy. I carried the covered cage carefully away from the house and out into the paddock. I had lain awake much of the night plotting my course of action… I would affixiate it! I moved the car into the paddock and found a very long eaves down spout that I attached to the tail pipe. I then placed the open end of the pipe into the cage under the cover and went somewhat guiltily in for breakfast. An hour latter I returned to find bemused contractors (who were working on barn renovations) scratching their heads and wondering what I was up to. I knocked the cage. Not a whimper. They were truly impressed. I then started to remove the sheet and what was presumed dead arose again! A truly Easter event. The sheet was hastily returned to its former place. There was but one thing to do. Letting it go within miles of the place was not an option. Skunks have incredible homing instincts. Living in the country with an old well, we have an abundance of rain barrels. I half emptied one and put it on a dolly and moved it to the paddock. The cage would fit in but the water was not deep enough. I repeated the action with a second barrel and had one of the contractors assist me with emptying its contents into the first barrel. A quick heave of the cage into the icy water did the trick almost instantaneously. The poor creature is buried on the fence line not too far from the rhubarb patch. In the process I got rather wet but amazingly, through all of this there was no further spraying. The contractors have proclaimed me the "Dunk the Skunk" king. The smell permeating the Garden Cottage is slowly dissipating. I am suffering with a cough and cold and a somewhat guilty conscience.

2006-04-17T11:25:00.000-04:00

2006 is our 20th season at Woodhead Cottage, a rustic cabin (no hydro, no plumbing) on a pristine point of land on a small lake in the Parry Sound region of Ontario. It is a wonderful retreat from the encroachment of constant communication, although over the years we have developed quite an enjoyable social life there.

2006-04-17T11:12:00.000-04:00

Our decision to leave Toronto in 1994 and move to the country was the best decision we could possibly have made. The Croft on Wind's-E'e is an 1860 Ontario farm house situated on a hill with endless views of mixed forest and farmland in all directions.