Harvest

Autumn is here. And it has arrived later than usual; but then, the weather these past few years has been unusual and unpredictable. We have still not had that killer frost and it is October 15.

It was on a wild, misty, rainy mid-October day 24 years ago that we first set our eyes on this place we now call home. Love at first sight. Today is much warmer than that day however. The wind is strong but balmy.

I have just finished a morning of canning green tomato and pear chutney. The house is filled with the aroma of this intoxicating concoction. I did not have sufficient red wine vinegar; so I have supplemented it with fine red wine.

One of my pear trees has yielded an abundant crop of near perfect Bosc pears. I have already canned 16 litres of this delicious fruit plus filled several smaller jars with pear sauce. However my apples this year, unlike last year’s abundant and near perfect crop, are sparse, small and scarred. So, sadly I have not put away any of this fruit this year.

John has done up several litres of his annual nine day pickles. My brother has sent us home from Nova Scotia with many jars of both his delicious tomato sauce and tomato chile. So, I think we are in good shape for many winter evenings of culinary delight.

A Chair

What is “art”? This is a question. 

Is it something only people can create? Or is it something created by any act that a beholder finds to be artistic. 

For example, today I passed by a wooden armchair on our patio. I have passed it many times this summer. 

Today I was struck by the colour and position of the chair, and of a natural act that has been imposed upon it. I took a picture of it. 

Is the object of the picture art? Or is it the act of taking the picture that has made it art? 

Does it matter? It is a thing of interest. It is a thing of beauty in the eyes of this beholder.

A Stag & Doe

On Saturday evening my partner and I went off to a “Stag & Doe” party at the local Legion. I had never been to one of these particular events. It was delightful and was made all the more so because the bride and groom are deaf as are so many of their young friends. There is such a joyful, affectionate comradery amongst this group. I so wished I could have engaged more with them other than by the nod of a head or a smile.

We have known the bride-to-be since she was born. Her immediate family lives just across the field from us, and her extended family work the farm a short hike down the road. The concept of a pre-marriage party for both members of the couple is refreshing. The typical separate “Stag” and “Wedding Shower” events have never appealed to me … the former often being an excuse for a vulgar drunk and the latter being a women’s-only petty gossip session. Stereotypical images I know.

At this event there were organized games, and draws, which served the purpose of drawing people together. People of all ages engaged with one another and mingled, even if their paths had never crossed before and might never cross again. Laughter was in the air… a healthy, happy laughter and competition too was rife, - a playful, spirited competition.

We were the only two from our village and rural community who attended that had not been raised here or were not part of the host family. We have only lived here for 23 years! But we have never considered ourselves outsiders, and for the most part have never been considered as outsiders. We strove early to become part of this amazing rural world.

Unfortunately, many city ex-pats do not immerse themselves in daily life here. They view themselves as above the throng. They join a group of self-proclaimed elite, a third rate aristocracy with showcase homes, extravagant parties and mindless chatter of self-aggrandizement. It is regrettable because they miss so much. Little do they know that they are often the subject of ridicule and contempt. Their experience would be far richer if they doffed their urban airs and let down their urbane hair.

Endless Rain

Oh for a day without endless rain

One day, just one, for pity’s sake

The grass is like a horse’s mane

The breeze is of a glistening lake

With laundry waiting for the line.

The sun is seldom seen for this late June

And patiently I bide my time

Amid lush trees and fragrant bloom.

I should not mind the rain pounding on my roof

While I watch from the comfort of my covered porch

Though man’s organizing mind in truth

Could wish it came with much less force;

And I look so for the sun’s healing rays

Though I would wish its heat was less extreme

But we are held to account for nature’s ways

By greed and vanity and selfish schemes.

Raging floods in torrents cause banks to burst

Then cruel drought follows in its stead

Drying wells and causing plants to wilt with thirst

Until the garden lays parched and dead.

I remember when spring was long and green,

Summer days were blissful, filled with laughter’s sound

And autumn crisp and golden and serene

Followed by winter’s predictable snow upon the ground

Each season with its purpose and its mark

Has long worked its magic on this tiny star

But must we now endure the chaos however stark?

Have we missed the chance and gone too far?

The Holly Bears a Berry

Nature never ceases to amaze. About 20 years ago I planted a very small holly bush, against my own better judgment and the advice of more experienced gardeners. We are not in the most temperate of climate zones. Here the temperature can be three or four degrees colder in the winter months and three or four degrees hotter in the summer months than even that which is a few kilometers to the south of us. But my little bush has grown and thrived and now stands thick and over four feet in height. It has bloomed abundantly year in and year out… But at most, it has only borne half a dozen dispersed red berries to my great disappointment.

Last fall I happened to be in the Garden Centre where I had purchased this plant those many years ago. While there, I learned that the holly needs both a male and a female bush to produce those absent red berries. Why it had taken me so long to discover, I do not know.

There happened to be one small male plant left on the premises. I bought it and skeptically planted it not too far from the original. Alas, I have just noticed that the original bush is now laden with hundreds, if not thousands, of thick clumps of berries, at this point still green. My excitement rises. I can, almost, hardly wait for the yet to arrive summer to turn to autumn. But for the time being, I will satisfy myself with the delayed arrival of summer and those lovely green berries.

Trauma

Our small village of Warkworth is one of almost constant activity: Maple syrup festivals, fall fairs, art shows, theatre, concerts, street festivals and more. Last night was such an event. The main street was closed. People I had never seen before came out of the woodwork. Children and parents abounded. There was food, music and dancing on the street. It was a true delight.

Now, I consider myself a reasonably good dancer, but by no means one that would win awards. I also consider myself to be a good listener and a fairly quick learner. Both considerations were crushed last night at our village’s street festival in front of a sizeable crowd of onlookers.

Reluctantly, I had offered myself up to learn square dancing because a male was desperately sought after to join the fray. I may have done some square dancing back in public school in the late 1950s. The recollection is only faint at best. I have certainly done Scottish Country dancing in the distant past and became quite accomplished at it. This is not unlike square dancing I had thought. Moreover, line dancing had been a regular entertainment for me and my life partner in the early 1990s. And only a few years ago I had competently joined a happy group of street revelers in dance on May Day in a seaside town in Cornwall, England. Good enough credentials I would have thought.

I was placed with a dance partner on one side of what was, I presumed, a square formation made up of four couples. The very first instruction, if it can be called that, was to – let’s say - “adeline”, (because I don’t remember the exact term and cannot find it on the internet) “to the left”. It would have been helpful if we had been told or even better, shown, what an “adeline” (or whatever) was. However, as the music began, I was quickly hauled to the right! And then, as I presumed I was to proceed in that direction, I was shoved to the left by some older, more experienced and seemingly rather cranky dancer. At one point someone snapped at me to let go of my partner’s hand, as if this should have been eminently obvious to me, and I was shoved inexplicably in another direction. After more such confusion, pushing and sheer bewilderment and frustration, and lacking in any coherent instruction, I fled from the pack to the sidelines and left my dance partner on her dismayed own.

Dancing should be fun. This was not – at least not for me. I did enjoy the animated belly dancing that followed, although as a bemused observer.

Who Killed Young Robin

Is it any wonder that humans are so dreadful to each other when the birds can be so wicked to those of other species. Robins tend to be very stupid about where they build their nests – often far too close to the ground, too visible to the passing eye. On our well-treed property we have many species of birds – some passing through, others remaining for some time before flying on and others nesting. The robins and the grackles are the most abundant in the spring. They seem always to be loudly harassing one another. The grackles usually win … sometime with heartbreaking effect. 

There is a lovely holly bush on our patio next to a little-used entrance door. This year, two robins built a nest there, about a metre off the ground and close to the path. Three lovely little turquoise eggs were deposited there and one or other of the parent birds sat devotedly on the nest. At first, it would fly off when we passed through yet another door a little further away. Then it would stay there, eyes fixed on our movement. Finally, even when we passed forgetfully close, it remained at the parental station.

One morning we peeked into the bush to see what developments may have occurred: … one egg missing, one dead newborn, on lonely abandoned egg remaining. This was just after a loud kerfuffle in a neighbouring Rowan tree between a robin and a grackle. There was no doubt in our minds what had transpired, for this was not the first time we had witnessed the effect of nests raided, of eggs stolen and of young birds carried off and ruthlessly killed, the cadavers tossed to the ground.

Although we humans have the ability to act generously towards those who are different from ourselves, too often we are that dreadful antagonistic grackle asserting ourselves simply because we can. Sad.

Morning Visitors

This morning, as we sat with our coffee looking at a bright red sun rise out the east window, we chanced to glimpse two young rabbits frolicking with each other on the lawn and driveway. We have only recently observed a number of rabbits in the fields. These ones seemed to belong right here in our compound. They ran repeatedly around the coach house, into the shrubs, under the cars like two joyful, tireless children playing hide and seek. What a delight. 

Then as I lay on the floor doing my habitual morning exercises, John called out frantically: “Look, get up, quick!” As I scrambled to my feet, we both stood in awe as this gigantic male turkey appeared from behind the coach house. It stood tall and stately, fanned its regal tail and slowly progressed across the lawn toward the window where we were standing wide mouthed. 

If our beloved Buster had been 100 pounds, then this creature’s weight certainly came close to it. Its belly appeared like that of a pregnant woman at full term or of a portly older gentleman of the Victorian era come fresh from the after-dinner salon, well sated. 

It seemed to be heading determinedly towards the garden where we have placed a large metal sculpture representing a heron with its wings spread wide… But it continued past and disappeared into the upper garden and then to the field beyond. 

It seemed odd to us that such a striking male turkey would not be with its harem. Usually they can be seen in the fields with a flock of twenty or more. But later, we observed a small flock of turkeys disappear behind the barn. 

Why does one so often lack a camera at hand during such wonderful close encounters?

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.