Whether I will have as much inclination to sit and write in my blog after the store has ceased operation remains to be seen. How wonderful, the sunny day, cold and quiet, witnessed across the counter and through the window panes. But if I did not write, I might go mad!

The orchestral Christmas music playing on the CD with background bird song, sleigh bells, horses neighing and barking dogs, places me in the realm of contented day dreams. I have puttered away at the displays, dabbled with bookkeeping and chatted with the too occasional customer.

Today I will miss an afternoon cocktail party; but will head off to a concert this evening soon after the store closes. My daily exercise was bringing in the firewood this morning and chopping the kindling so that the two woodstoves will keep the house warm on this chilly day.

My partner, will be happily at home baking for our seasonal entertaining. The house will smell of everything good. No doubt he will have our two seasonal trees lit, and choral music on the radio. Buster, will stay close so that anything that might drop onto the kitchen floor can be quickly licked up. He will disappear from time to time to bring out a different stuffed toy to paw and shake and lay on.

Does it sound too perfect to be true? It is everything I have written and more.

Once again we approach the darkest day of the calendar year. The good news is that thereafter the days grow longer. Solstice is around mid-day on December 21 this year. We will have our Winter Solstice celebration on the evening of December 20. The event begins around a large bonfire in our paddock. We will be about 40 festive souls of all ages. Here is a poem I have written. There will be other poems read and songs sung.

Winter Solstice 2009

The days now are dark and dreary;
Though November remained so mild.
Our bodies have become too weary
With blustering winds blowing wild.

And gory news at every turn
The stories of famine and death
Tsunamis, quakes and fires that burn
Will take away one’s breath.

So let us gather around this flame
To kindle fellowship with friends
And burn the guilt and rid the blame
And heal whatever rends;

That as we call the sun again
To warm the soil and light our ways
To quick the seeds and soothe the pain
With the mystery of its rays,

We know we cannot stand alone
Or refuse the warmth that’s near;
For we are seeds that must be grown
By love and friendship’s care.

So stand we here this darkly night
To recall to our realm the sun
And let us smile by flickering light
And together have some fun!

Ours is a small, quiet lake. We have had our Woodhead retreat for 23 years. Days can go by without a passing boat; then, it is more often a kayak that will glide silently by than a motor boat.
The loons often appear off our dock in the early morning, and at night we can hear their eerie call. I have seen moose and deer from our wooded point, and bear on the lane into our hide-away.
This summer, at a waterside market, I saw on display some magnificent hand-built wooden boats in the old Muskoka style. Most were well out of my financial range. One boat, however, caught my eye. It was a 10-foot wooden dorey – a row boat. Now, whether it is the romance of rowing in the morning mist, the thought of good, hearty exercise, or reliving my Henley rowing days, this was something I had always hoped I might be able to have at the lake.
The builder said he could make it into a sail boat for a very affordable price: two boats for a little more than the price of one.
Life is short. I take possession in a week. Of course it will remain in storage until next summer season at the lake. And I already feel like a child, too impatient for Christmas morning. It is my 60th birthday gift to myself; so if my 60th birthday must come, let it come quickly.

In honour of Amanda, Warkworth's first annual Pumpkin Carving Contest was a great success. Although there were separate junior and adult competitions, the kids' entries were every bit as creative as the adults' - perhaps even better.

A video clip of the event is posted to YouTube.

Another dreadful vehicle accident. - Another innocent person badly hurt. So many people now affected by an act of shear carelessness or reckless disregard for the wellbeing of others.
At least this vibrant person stands to recover, albeit after a long and painful period of multiple surgeries and rehabilitation.
Life is so fragile. We are all so risk averse.
Wonderfully, our small village has rallied again to offer whatever support it can. Waiting to hear how, what and when to offer. Feeling a bit helpless and inadequate in friendship.
I try to remember always to appreciate the moment as if it were my last. To stop in the chaos and find the calm beauty. It isn't easy. It is healing.

October rainy day, the sort of day we fell in love with our soon to become home 16 years ago. Tomorrow, with the help of friends, we will be splitting wood for the fire. This wood is from trees that have been taken down on our property in the past 2 years. Since we have planted well over 50 trees these past 15 years, we do not feel as badly as otherwise we might that some noble giants have had their day, - as we all must.
Fall is a reflective time. So perhaps it is fitting that our grave markers are now holding our inevitable place in the tiny cemetery at the end of our road. How odd at first to see one’s name engraved in stone amongst the many stones that have stood there – some for almost 200 years. The previous owners of our homestead are amongst them. Indeed the cemetery is named after the original inhabitants.
October days are crisp or raw depending on whether there is the golden sun of autumn, or the wind blown driving rain that brings down the leaves. We must take them as they come. Yesterday was the former, and Buster and I took a long ramble down golden tree covered lanes under soft blue skies, picking delicious wild apples and brushing through fallen leaves as we went. Life is good.

A Porch Song

The quiet chatter of those who know the knocks of years
And laugh with wonder that they have survived
The slings and arrows hurled their way;
And in the field they have even thrived
If the tales they utter are but half true.
They fully understand the clock runs down
And each ticking tock they will imbue
With life’s timid vibrancy to the end.

Only birds and cows were witness there
To harmless souls in friendship’s flight;
And if they drank too much and chortled loud,
Their grins were wide with eyes alight.
The aches, the scars are nothing then;
The pain and tears that carved their flesh
Are softened by the singing wren
Whose cheerful song says rejoice, live on.

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.