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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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