An Indignant Robin

You won't see the robins in my photo. They flew off as the snow intensified. 

But as I have been sitting here at 1:30 in the afternoon, by the fire, watching the accumulation of snow that has been falling since 7:30 this morning, I did see a robin fluffed up and hunched indignantly against the February cold. It was eating the miniature crab apples, in appearance more like cherries. These still cling burnished red from the branches in abundance. 
This robin would obviously prefer to nosh on a worm. It quickly drops each bitter fruit that it picks as it flutters from branch to branch. Out another widow I could see another tree, bare of fruit but laden with birds. And on one branch sat another robin with its bright orange chest puffed out, seemingly oblivious to a vibrant blue jay sitting close to it, pondering. On a branch below was the chipper chickadee. This trinity is a rare sight, at least for me. There should be no robins up here on this hill at this time of year. Any that did not fly south should be huddled in the thick trees of the deep valley across the field. 
But this is no ordinary winter. Last week there was a flock of 30 or more robins on the snow covered lawn. Rarely, if at all, have I seen robins flocking. My eyes were wide in disbelief. As the weather goes back and forth in an instant from mild and snowless to frigid and icy, who can blame a bird for being confused. My neighbour has even see a number of bluebirds in her trees, a rare sighting even in the warmest days of spring. 
This winter has seen an unusual array of climate patterns. I can handle snow. It's the snow mixed with rain and freezing rain, and the snow on top of layers of ice that has become the bane of my existence this winter. But then, I guess a challenge is good for one's constitution. But I do feel like that indignant robin, all puffed up and bewildered.

Lumberjack 26 October 2016

Today I climbed a ladder

Which I leaned into a tree.

It was somewhat precarious

And more than a bit rickety.

I climbed it more than once

For it wasn’t one but three.

And they are big old cedars

That block our view you see.

So they needed much the pruning

Their tops that I sawed free.

And as I clung to branches

And grasped them steadily.

I sawed by arm and hand

I sawed quite heartily.

I sawed until my shoulder ached

And felt it tenderly.

I sawed from every angle.

I sawed so busily.

And then I cleared the brush away

And cleared it hastily.

For my partner does not like it

When I work when absent he

But now I see the distant hills

And view the wild turkey.

And I watch the deer and foxes run

As they dash so speedily.

So I am pleased by the finished task

And grin now mischievously.

When will he notice what is done

When will it dawn on he

That the vista has now improved

And grown formidably.

Magellan

While the world is in turmoil, we seem to be continually struck by the wonder of nature on our hilltop in Northumberland County. Earlier this past summer I was working in the garden when a passing glance saved me from stepping on a small painted turtle. It was huddled in its palm-sized shell, trying to hide on a piece of limestone that edges one of our gardens. 
Although the occasional frog makes its way up our hill from distant marshland across fields of hay and a gravel road, this visitor was a first for us. Perhaps these creatures smell water, however tiny the source. For we have a bathtub-sized pond in our garden. But why trade a large marsh for such a venue. 
I picked up the magnificent creature in my hand. I carefully carried it to this small pond and set it on one of the large waterlily pads. It seemed very happy; but after several days it disappeared. Perhaps wanderlust took it further. I had named it Magellan after another adventurer.

Cracked and Baffled

We love our old house. We love the creaks and the groans, the imperfect floors, the drafts and those cobwebs that keep reappearing. We love it’s history, its eyes and ears, its secrets. But an old house, is like an old person. It needs constant care and attention. You get a hip replaced and the knee goes out. You sneeze and all hell breaks loose.

But we love the wood panelled walls in the “summer kitchen” and its beamed ceiling. We love the fireplaces that burn bright and comforting in the fall, winter and early spring. We cherish the abundant screen doors that give out to the gardens and fresh air, to the decks and the patio in the late spring, summer and early fall. We love the uncurtained windows facing the stunning vistas to the north and south and east and west and, of course, the front porch facing to the sun rise.

However, there is the old faithful dug well with its magnificent stone walls and abundant water source that just gave out after a parching summer of drought. Fortunately, we have our trusty cistern recently refurbished and our many rain barrels. So we have survived these past two weeks quite well while waiting for the plumber to arrive: a wonderful lesson in water conservation. The well needs to be cleaned out and the intake freed of the silt that is now blocking it.

Then there is the lovely soap stone fireplace in our summer kitchen, now converted to one of our living rooms. The chimney sweep has reported after his recent annual visit that the baffle is bust. Yes, and we must not use it until it is repaired, for it is cracked and potentially a fire hazard. So we wait for our cracked baffle to be repaired. Cracked and baffled ourselves. Fortunately we have had a very warm and extended autumn.

While cutting up some firewood the other day, the chainsaw gave out just as we were finishing the task, and in the last trimming of fence rows the lawn mower sputtered to a stop. It was not merely out of gas. I have made that mistake embarrassingly once before. And when we hooked up the trailer to take these machines in for repair, the trailer’s signal lights did not work. So now we must wait for the repair of the trailer’s electrical system before ferrying our gadgets to the distant mechanic.

Yes, we love our home and the knoll upon which it sits. We love that we know these service people by name and where they live, and that they are all close neighbours. We love that we feel part of the wonderful countryside around us with its challenges and its blessings.

I Saw a Snake Today

I saw a snake on the patio wall

It too saw me standing by

I was filling the cistern with a pale

Because our well’s gone dry.

It feared my presence and turned to flee

Not merely slinking as snakes will do

But leaping airborne to a hidden place

Where only snakes pass through.

Then crossing the courtyard to the barn

Another snake was at the door

It saw me coming to enter in

And scurried beneath the floor.

What creatures lurk beneath my feet

And me above their place

I cannot doubt their right to be

We must all share this wondrous space.

I’ll leave the rocks and soil for them

Disturbing the least I can

To safeguard well their earthen homes

From the carelessness of Man.

But let them stay well hidden there

For though I want them on this earth

It excludes settling my dwelling’s walls

Or resting upon my hearth.

Autumn Ride

Resting

The Sun so warm upon my face

Fills my spirit with passion’s zest

As I glide with steady pace

The breeze upon my heaving chest.

The air clean and fresh in autumn light

My nostrils wide with harvest scent

My eyes are filled with such delight

As my thighs churn with torso bent.

The colours of the woods surrounding

Vibrant red and orange and purple yet

The call of nature deep resounding

With resonance I shan’t forget.

I cycle through the field and down the lane

To gravel road and more descent

My legs revolve beyond their pain

And sweating still I am content.

Then up and up and up again I strive

With pulsing veins as muscles pound

Telling me I am quite alive

With circling wheels homeward bound.

How Dry I Am

This has been a summer of intense persistent heat and parching drought. This is not news to anyone who lives in the Ontario countryside. Withered cornfields, dry stream beds and wells, grass like straw doormats, dead shrubs and trees all attest to it. Some herds are being culled with the cost of hay soaring.

And yet, this autumn has been so late in arriving, with no frost still at Thanksgiving, the wild flowers along the road sides and field edges flamboyant. The woods in our horizon are glowing with vibrant colour like in no other year that I have witnessed since moving here almost 23 years ago.

These October days are warm with glistening sunshine. The mornings are cool with fog rising from the valleys and obscuring the usual vistas from our hilltop home. It seems as if we are on an island out in the middle of an ancient sea.

This visual beauty no doubt hides the practical hardship that so many are experiencing. We need rain so desperately here, even as I am hearing news of a hurricane now ravaging many parts of the world to the south of us with heavy rains and ferocious winds. One wonders if these extremes are the new reality. One hopes not.

Flirting Turtle

An earlier posting this summer was a tale of a painted turtle that appeared in our garden at home. Turtles, of course, come in many sizes and varieties. Our summer cottage lake is home to two kinds that we know of. These are the painted turtle and the snapper.

The painted is seen on logs by the water’s edge as we canoe by . They can vary in length from a few inches to about one foot if one takes the neck, shell and tail into consideration. We seem to have three generations of snapping turtles that appear under the surface of the water or peaking above it near our docks. One is a little more than one foot in length, another almost two feet, and the elder is a good three feet or more from head to tail.

Whereas, as the name suggests, the painted turtle is pretty to look at, the snappers, on the other hand are gnarled and worn and ominous. They have large feet and claws and, when outstretched, very long necks. The shell of the largest itself is at least two feet from tip to toe.

Guests are always intrigued by the size of the snapper, and somewhat intimidated. We always assure them that these remnants of an antediluvian epoch are more afraid of us than we should be of them. But do not corner them or you are sure to lose a finger or toe or even a hand or foot. Regardless, the lake is big enough for all to survive happily together. Indeed, my partner is wont to talk sweetly to these creatures as they surface near the dock from time to time.

That was our story for the past thirty summers until recently when we were putting our dock to bed for the approaching winter season. We do this annual ritual by disconnecting our dock from its attachment to the shore and then floating it into a quiet and sheltered bay. My partner and I must stand up to our waists on either side of the short bridge that holds the dock in place. We next remove the lynch pins and piping that secure the dock and flip the bridge back onto the land.

We were just beginning this exercise when a base shriek came from my partner’s side of the dock. I watched in amazement as he jumped clear out of the water and onto the rocks - a considerable feat for a man in his 70s. The large snapper had nudged his leg with the butt of his head! But upon witnessing the ensuing commotion, it had departed abruptly into the deep – or so we thought.

Back into the water we went when I felt a distinct pressure on my right foot. Looking down, I saw this large clawed foot resting on top of mine and the adjacent face of the turtle. A shriek of a similar nature was emitted from my side of the dock and I was quickly elevated to dry land. But the creature did not flee. It stayed there grinning up at me from the deep for a while, before slipping into the darkness of the deep.

Now were these possibly merely pats of friendship from one alien creature to another, or was it perhaps testing the possibility of digestion? I might hope to never find out. 

A Summer Mystery Solved

There has been a mystery on our lake, unsolved these many years. And like our discovery one recent misty morning, I shall gently unfold its secret to you here.

We were sitting on our long dock, facing westerly towards a silent island adorned with magnificent white pine. This has become a morning ritual for us, coffee in hand, wonder in our eyes.

While we were still in shadow, a thin layer of mist lingering over the water, the sun lost in the trees behind us, ahead the water danced brilliant. The far shore was illuminated under a teal blue sky bespeckled with small cottony clouds, white as snow.

The water was still glassy calm. A lone loon bathed in the distance while a seagull circled overhead. From the island we noticed a v-shaped ripple take shape and move in our direction. There was vigorous animation in this ripple.

This was not a particularly odd occurrence however. We have seen beaver, and an otter and even moose, deer and a bear emerge from the sanctity of this island paradise - a right of passage to the mainland. But we have never before beheld this creature now swimming so confidently toward us, no not in our thirty years on this Blackwater Lake.

We sipped our coffee, watched in quietude and wondered. It was too small for a beaver; so certainly it was no moose, deer or bear.

Weeks ago we had observed an otter swim vigorously from our shore to the island. No doubt this had to be that very otter returning to us.

The creature continued to swim in a seemingly predetermined direction directly toward our dock. Was it bold, or was it oblivious to our presence there? As it came closer, there was a directness in its upward glance, a certain cheekiness of entitlement and belonging. The look was all too familiar. The tail stretching out behind was familiar too.

The creature climbed without hesitation onto the underbelly of our dock and passaged quickly to the rocky shore. From there it ran to a tall cedar and mounted its aerial pulpit from which it hurled down hellfire and damnation upon us.

Our island friends of summer, now gone to that land below our borders, had like us wondered at the presence of a solitary rodent on their domain. This frisky, tree climbing, nut eating intruder had surely reached their shores on the winter ice that covers these waters from December to April each year. After all, squirrels may fly, but they surely do not swim.

But yes, at least one of them does. And it does it well. And this one, no doubt deeply annoyed at having been denied access to its island winter home by fresh mortar, had fled in indignation to our mainland sanctuary.

Heat Wave

I always wondered why people in the tropics seem to work so little. But as the world heats up, I think I can honestly say I now understand. 

Never before have I seen the external thermometer in my car hit the 33 Celsius mark. I am not sure that we ever adapted as creatures to live comfortably in extremes of heat or cold. That people do amazes me. 

There is much to do – or rather that needs doing - but little enthusiasm that can be mustered for the doing of it. Lethargy is the predominant mood, and a desire for cool liquid and a cooling breeze is all that fills the mind. 

I sit still. I feel heavy. I feel guilty. I want to be doing something, anything: a country walk, a cycle ride, gardening, creating something, experiencing something vital. And yet I sit. 

If a lake or sea were close by, I should joyfully jump in. And yet I sit. Too indolent even to get in my car and travel the relatively short distance to water. And so I sit.

The Robe

This morning we were waiting for the coffee to finish perking. In the meantime, we had wandered outside to see how the garden had faired after last night’s heavy rain and rather angry wind storm. One potted fichus tree on the back deck had been blown over but now been righted again. Then, my partner noticed that the chipmunk live trap, which had been placed by the garden under the locust tree, was gone. He was sure it had been there the night before. I too had a recollection of seeing it there.

Chipmunks are cute little creatures to the eye. But to the pocket book they can do much damage. Since cats and our beloved dog have long since died, we are now overrun by these rats in fine striped coats. They have constructed cities under our lawns and gardens. They have excavated beneath our home’s foundation. They have burrowed into our outbuilding walls. Therefore, we have taken to trapping them and delivering them far afield. In the process, much petrol has been consumed. So, you will see that they are also bad for the environment.

It is true one should live harmoniously with nature. But when nature does not live harmoniously with one, then it is all out war!

We were both puzzled by the disappearance of the cage. We even doubted our memories and wondered if it had ever been replaced since the last delivery. Surely the storm could not have blown it away, being a heavy wired metal trap. There would be little for the wind to attach itself to.

Our puzzlement dissipated when we noticed that a clear pathway had been blazed through the tall grass beneath and surrounding the Forsythia bush. It sits perched on the edge of the embankment that leads to our lower field and small orchard. Something larger than a chipmunk, much larger, must have been emboldened by the scent emanating from within of creamy peanut butter on a Ritz cracker. The only credible explanation was that it had become stuck part way within the cage and had dragged it down the hill, finally freeing itself. Perhaps it was a small racoon. Surely not a skunk, or there would have been an unpleasant aroma wafting in the air and about the cage.

The grass was wet of course. The hill was steep. My partner was wearing his freshly laundered snow white bath robe, the red plaid one having already been taken up to the cottage for our misty morning coffees on the dock this summer. He was wearing his flat soled moccasins, worn and tread-less. Down the hill he went – And DOWN he went slipping unceremoniously onto his posterior – a surprised and concerned look upon his face. And at his resting place lay the cage, upturned and empty. All but his pride was unharmed.

With some assistance, and a stifled giggle, I gave him a hand up the hill, while hanging onto the lower branch of a Maple tree. Into the wash quickly went the robe – stained green by his tumble on the grassy slope. And now it lies pristinely white again on the bed, awaiting whatever unforeseen adventures may come its way. Do I hear the delighted chirping of the chipmunks as they go about their excavations? Perhaps only in my mind. Perhaps only in the secret smile on my face.

The Hitch-hiker

When I was young and working for the summer in Quebec province, I often hitch-hiked. And in Europe too, as a young man, I hitched rides across the continent. And once I even hitched from Johannesburg to Cape Town across the desert that separates the two. Some rides were wonderful, some were somewhat unnerving; but all got me to my destinations. That was in my carefree youth. Very occasionally, I have assessed and picked up a hitch-hiker at the side of the road myself; but not in many years now.

The other day, my partner was coming home from doing a two-day workshop in a town about two hours away. As he left that town and entered the on-ramp for the highway, a young lad put out his hand. My partner, being the kind and socially responsible chap that he is, stopped the car. The fellow, in his twenties, got in and his story unfolded.

Apparently, the fellow had just been released from a jail in this town. He had been picked up by the police two weeks before. He did not know why. No, he had not been able to call his parents because the jail phone did not interact with the system they were using. No, he had not called a lawyer because he did not qualify for legal aid by reason of his income, and he did not earn enough to hire a private lawyer. That, at least, is a sadly credible and common state of affairs.

That day the fellow had been released because it was a case of mistaken identity by the police. They had now found the real culprit of whatever crime it was that had been committed. However, they had released this wrongly accused without any of his possessions being returned to him. Apparently, the police advised they were not available that day. He had no luggage and no money.

The fellow’s story unnerved my partner, thinking perhaps of the many road-related murders that have been in the news recently. His foot hit the gas pedal a little harder than is usual… and he reached the drop-off ramp 45 minutes away much faster than would normally have been anticipated. The fellow got out and waved goodbye. My partner continued homeward.

Now my partner has long since stopped keeping his wallet in his rear pant pocket, because it tends to aggravate a nerve and give him back trouble. So, the wallet was sitting in the well between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat along with a number of other items of clutter, something which seems to accumulate wherever he finds himself.

Meanwhile, I was waiting at home on a lovely summer-like late afternoon, having prepared a scrumptious supper with table setting on the back deck; this after a day of gardening, cycling and cleaning out the cistern. The aroma of the blooming lilac bush wafted over the deck and into the house. Soft jazz was playing on the ipod in our living room.

My partner was in a state when he walked in the door. His wallet was gone! Are you sure, I asked. No, perhaps it had slipped onto the floor or was on the back seat. He had tossed his brief case there, as it had been sitting on the passenger seat before the hitch-hiker got in. Back to the car. The patio screen door slammed. Back to the house. The screen door slammed again. No wallet.

Damn. Kindness had led to this. What a bloody hassle. Better call the bank right away and deal with your bank cards and credit cards, I say. Dinner will have to wait. Off he goes to his office to do just that. At least there was no cash in the wallet! At least he was not a murder victim found in a ditch that was to be reported on the evening news. He was home safely. And dinner was lovely in the pleasant filtered evening light of a setting sun through lush trees. Wine helped.

Next morning he would have to go off first thing to the Service Ontario office in the neighbouring town. He needed to report his lost driver’s licence and lost health card, and he had to get temporary ones; both of which are most necessary. I would do the dishes and the laundry in the meantime. Off he goes to the car. He would do the grocery shopping for tonight’s dinner party while he was out.

Meanwhile, I was in the kitchen. The front porch door was open and I can hear the birds chirping brilliantly. Then, I hear my name being called and footsteps on the porch. My partner is standing at the screen door, with a sly grin on his face. He holds up a wallet. It had been under the sun visor. “I never keep it there”, he protests.

And now, he is feeling badly about having unjustly defiled the character of the young man to whom he had given the lift. Albeit, the jail story is somewhat far-fetched.