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.

The Garden of Life

We stand here on our hilltop and wonder about the state of the world as Donald Trump bewilders and concerns so many of us on his continuing upward journey, and the raging fires burn the forests, and friends too young die. Yes another this week.

But we try very hard not to think about it, since there is nothing we can do about these things. Our days of taking to the streets in angry, often futile, protest at every apparent affront is long past us now.

Instead, we look at the lilacs now in bloom - purple and mauve and white, and the purple iris standing next to the bright red poppies and the proud allium popping up all over the place. The Baltimore Orioles enchant us with song, as do the tiny Wrens. The Peepers lull us to sleep from the ditches at night; the howling of the coyotes stir us, and we shake our heads at the endless battle between the Grackles and the Robins.

I have now been retired one year. Last year, as I was recovering from hip surgery, I did not toil in the garden. Instead, my beloved partner undertook the task and discovered not only the endlessness of the undertaking, but the joy in it. This year, we are both at the task, and the property has never looked as well tended in its carefree way.

We no longer work from dawn to dusk as we often did a decade and more ago. Our bodies are not up to it. And we are wiser too. We realize that the work will always be there. Slow and steady wins the race. We want time to sit and ponder these days; so one or two hours here and there, multiplied by the two of us, is sufficient effort for a garden well tended.

The Lone Goose

I usually write about life concerning our countryside home. This blog entry is about life at our rustic cottage retreat.

Our lake is small. In recent years from spring to early fall, it has been home to an increasing number of Canada Geese. They are not well loved by most cottagers whose waterfronts have been invaded and desecrated by these well-meaning creatures. It is not their fault if they are inclined to use the artificial beaches and manicured lawns for nesting and for their toilet. These are, after all so inviting.

Our cottage is basic - no hydro, no plumbing - and we think it wonderful. Its natural waterfront and treed lot is not so inviting, at least for the geese. We do not have to suffer the slings and arrows of goose dung to the same degree.

There were fewer gaggles of geese this year. Often the geese have numbered in the 30’s after the annual births. These gaggles are clusters of several families. It seems, however, that this year there was but one family… two adults and six little goslings, small, grey and downy balls of fluff that grazed under the watchful eye of the parents. Taking to the water, they raced comically to stay in the secure zone of parental oversight.

There are many dangers for these young waterfowl. The hawks are soaring high above, talons on the ready. The large snapping turtles lurk beneath the dark surface. There are domesticated dogs and cats to be wary of, as well as coyotes and other carnivorous creatures of the wild. Nevertheless a goose once threatened is not to be tangled with and the survival rate of their young does seem to be high.

One has to admit that the early dawn sighting of these proud geese gliding by in a tightly marshalled line can be quite inspiring to behold.

Of course, the optimal phrase is “gliding by” – swimming on to someone else’s territory.

Sitting on our point over the weeks and months of summer, we observe these young geese growing day by day, changing colour, changing shape. But in mid August we observed one of the young was missing. Now there were the two adults and five adolescent birds.

What had happened? A turtle? They come up from the deep on a resting bird and with their long sharp claws disembowel the prey and drag it down. Or was it a fox? We could only guess.

As summer was drawing to its close, we observed the lessons in flight. The vigorous flapping along the water’s surface fine entertainment. Then came the short not quite airborne dashes. Next, there are short flights of a few meters before splashing down. There is much practice needed before the young wings are strong enough to circle the lake in midair.

But we noticed early on in these lessons that one goose was left on the water far behind… honking frantically, flapping feverishly, but never achieving flight. Parents and siblings returned to its side, curious. Then off again they went, the lone one once again left behind, trying as it might to catch up. The others would return soon enough, and off the entire family swam as if all was well. As the lessons continued, the straggler continued to struggle. Its call was plaintive, from a human perspective, sad. “Wait for me” it said. And wait they did.

One day as we kayaked close to the far shore we came across the rotting carcass of a midsized goose. It had been dead for quite some time. The sight was not pleasant. It was not our goose … but it was surely the missing one. What had been its fate?

The daily practice flights continued. The lone goose tried and tried without success to be like its brothers and sisters. It cannot be faulted for its effort. After each practice run, the family always came back and gathered around the flightless one. If this were Disney, there would be much chatter and questioning. But the real world is not Disney.

As the days went by and the sun slipped quickly toward the south, the flocks of geese were now flying overhead in larger and larger numbers. The noisy formations were starting to look something like the primal V we expect to see way up in the autumn sky. And one day, our fond family flew off, leaving one dead and one debilitated goose behind. What were they feeling? Do geese feel sorrow?

We seldom sighted the lone goose after that. But we heard its distant eerie call morning and night. Occasionally, it could be seen, like a haunting ghost in the morning mist. What would its fate be? Winter would come. The lake would freeze. The water would no longer be a refuge. A lone land-struck goose would be easy hunting for those creatures seeking to fatten up before winter’s full blast.

But this autumn has been mild… exceptionally so. By December, the lake was still not frozen. Our goose had, remarkably, befriended a pet mallard duck that it had met while swimming out on our lake this fall. Unfortunately, the goose is not inclined to accept human help. Unlike the duck, it is not human friendly. There may be good reason.

The duck’s owner, who lives on our lake year round, informs us that the goose has a broken wing … Perhaps we should have guessed. If it would only follow its new friend to the safety of its shed at night, it might just survive the cold dark days ahead.

How does a goose break its wing? Was it hit by a boat? Was that also how the other goose died? Was the attack intentional – an irate cottager, an irresponsible guest? We will never know.

We hope we might see our lone goose again in the spring. Time will tell. The odds, however, would seem to be against it.

Bare foot and Pregant

Not! 

Well I am bare foot – to a degree. I am wearing sandals. And I have been in the proverbial kitchen since early morning making apple sauce, salmon pate, and chicken liver pate and preparing a cold summer dinner for a neighbour who will be our guest this evening. And John has been chasing a rabbit away from our morning glories, which have become a regular delicacy for any number of young rabbits.

John also managed to capture a critter in our chipmunk live trap this morning – a young skunk! Rather than risk driving it to a new home, with an old yardstick, he managed to prop up the gates of the trap and encouraged the rather cute, timid creature to scurry away from its entrapment. This it happily did. In gratitude, no spray was forthcoming. Past experiences with adult skunks have not been so fortunate.

Today, it is a glorious 28 Celsius, a little better than yesterday’s 32 degrees. Even the thunderstorm that swept through in the late afternoon did not cool it down much. It did produce a wonderful rainbow. 

The current heat is quite different from just three days ago when we had the fire on in the summer kitchen to stave off the chill.

However, it has been too hot for a long walk these past couple of days. Nevertheless, I did manage to walk down the road to a neighbour’s farm late this morning to return a pan. While there, I picked some beets, parsley and onion greens from the vegetable garden, - upon her invitation. I  returned home with my treasure at a leisurely pace, walking next to a wall of corn. I had just finished stewing the beet greens and cooking the beets when John came home from errands with another bag of beets. But these will be his chore. 

One can only take so much of a kitchen on a lovely summer’s day.

A Room with a View

Today has been the first day in eighteen days that I have not had to deal with clearing snow, either by reason of snowfall or blowing snow. My beloved partner has been sitting on a beach for all of that time. 

Well, dealing with snow and firewood is certainly one way to keep fit. It is also a way to do oneself harm. I think I am feeling the effects of both options.

This morning, as I sat in the comfort of my armchair by the fire, I could see the sun rising over the distant hill. The coffee tasted particularly good as it dawned on me, like the day, that I had nothing especially pressing to do. There was a fine mist floating high above the ground. The sky was a comfortable rose colour, indicating the blue sky that was to come later. The minus 22 Celsius I awoke to, rose to a comfortable, windless minus 10. Absolutely balmy by comparison to the temperatures we have been having.

But I am not someone to sit for long, unless I have a good book to read. And I had devoured two of them these past eighteen days. So passing by the kitchen window on the way for a second cup of coffee, I decided the cedar row we had planted along the roadside to the north many years ago was starting to obstruct our view of the countryside. The trees needed to be trimmed back. An easy task for a quiet day in the country.

After I had gathered my handsaw and clippers, I thought better of trudging through the waste deep snow and so I walked down the lane and along the roadside. These moderately sized trees now seemed like giants as I peered up at them. They had seemed so much smaller looking at them from the hilltop window. But then I realized the snow was crunchy hard by the road, piled high by the almost daily ploughing. This would make it easier. The snow pile was firm and a good six feet deep, which would take me a good way up the tree trunks. So I mounted the bank and felt quite smug, until the crust gave way and I sank hopelessly down to my chest. Not a good idea. But great exercise in attempting the escape from my icy encasing. A ladder would be needed.

So I trudged back along the road and up the hill to retrieve a tall step ladder. Once back by the cedar row, I went to grab the saw. It was right there I was sure. But it too had disappeared into the snow. After meticulous scanning with my hands I found it – or it found me – OUCH. Blood on snow is quite pretty really.

Alas, not to be daunted, I placed the ladder up against the first and smaller of the trees and managed quite well to lop of the top a good four feet from the peak. Until the ladder shifted ominously to the side and sank two feet at the same time, leaving me dangling by one hand to the trunk. I was glad my partner was not there to witness this. On the other hand, had he been there, I likely would not have found myself in this ridiculous situation.

Beginner’s mishap. And it was. I gained my feet and so did the ladder and I managed to lower the tops of the ten bushy trees that were most obstructive of our winter view. In the summer you see, there is other more abundant foliage that walls us snugly in and secures us from the world outside. We don’t mind that verdant seclusion. There are vistas still, but more discreet.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

On a day that’s cold and white

When winter’s in full swing

There is a vision, quite the sight

While birds fly on the wing.

It is a fluffy little rabbit

Who eats the seeds below

And this is now quite the habit

While fatter he does grow.

And yes the birds seem well undone

That all the seeds aren’t theirs

For rabbit edges on their fun

And seems quite unawares

That all this food is not for him

It’s meant for aviary dining

But they as well are not so slim

And should clearly stop their whining.

There is plenty there for one and all

Even Squirrel has nimbly eaten

By feats that amuse and quite enthrall

For he will not be beaten.

So there we have our little clutch

Of those who share this hill

And this pleases me yes very much

From where I sit quite still.

Home is a sanctuary

Home is where the hearth is and that could not be truer than in a frigid winter. We stepped off the plane after leaving three weeks of +30 Celsius, sea breezes, soft sand and the healing warmth of a tropical sea to -16 Celsius and a harsh, biting wind. By the time we got to our home, it was – 24 Celsius. Our bodies were traumatized.

But there is nothing like being home. It feels so good. And that is despite the ice and snow, the shovelling, the frozen pipes, the repetitive task of bringing in loads of firewood to feed our various wood stoves and a fireplace, and yes the return of many aches that had slipped away in the heat of Cuban sunshine.

It does not take long to forget that we had been away, although flaking skin reminds us of our once brilliant tans. We come home to friends, a busy social schedule and, of course, work. All feel good. Idleness, has charm only for so long.

Blow, blow ye wintry winds

Winter has hit and we Warkworthians have long since completed our preliminary preparations for the coming holiday season with lights about the property and wreaths abounding.  With the fresh snow, too early for my liking, it looks rather magical at night I must say.

Speaking of the fresh snow, Wednesday evening my partner John was out. It had snowed heavily all day! I went outside after finishing up my legal work and got our newly tuned 20-year old snowblower out to do its wonderful work. I had completed about 1/3 of the drive and patio when it died - of course at the foot of the hill... 

I finished the drive by hand in an hour and a half... Then, I dragged the machine back up the hill and into the shed. Exhausted, I went inside the house, put a log on the fire, took a pain pill, and had a substantial glass of wine, all in an effort to console myself.

I had to leave next day at 7am for a conference, and so I phoned a friend to ask if he would come in the morning to help John load the trailer so that John could take it into the repair shop in Campbellford, a town about 20K from here.

Overnight it had snowed again heavily and by the time of my anticipated departure, the drive was plugged with the white stuff. So, in my benevolence, I decided to help John with the shovelling before I left. I really had no option if I wanted poor little Mini to get down the drive. But I also decided to try to start the snow blower again, this time using the electric start cord instead of the manual pull ... It started right away, and I, smiling, directed the machine down the drive where it promptly conked out near the bottom again. It would not restart...

John and I dragged it back up the hill. Then John, in his wisdom, decided it was a problem with the gas line. I made fun of him and asked him if he had learned that in mechanics class on the moon. It's a joke with us. Every time he has a suggestion that comes out of the blue on a subject that he has no expertise in, I ask him if he learned that in whatever class on the moon. I am sure there is a long since forgotten rationale for that tease.

Before we put the pathetic snowblower away, he decided to check the gas tank. I insisted that I had already checked it last night and it was almost full. He ignored me. He often does. It happens after 33 years. He opened the gas cap, stood back and announced with his renowned clerical passion: It is bone dry! ...

I proclaimed that it had certainly looked full. In the dimness of dusk, and with weary and ageing eyes, it had definitely looked full - no doubt because of the reflection of the little remaining fuel and the dim light. Alas, it had been empty all this time!

Now, unfortunately, I have given him a story to tell at parties for the rest of the year. He has even started to learn how to tell it in Spanish in anticipation of Christmas festivities in Cuba!