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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to a Gan Scot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.