I was so disgusted at the lack of exercise I have had this winter due to snow, ice, frigid temperatures and a myriad other excuses, that when I saw that an elliptical trainer was on sale, I bought it. My partner and I had just brought it home in our trailer and, after carefully lifting the mighty beast down from its perch, we wheeled it to the only place we could easily bring it, - our studio office facing out a west window with a stunning view of the countryside. I knew it would be double the price in the fall when I will really need it. For all its marvels, there is a dirth of easily accessible gymnasia in rural Northumberland. I immediately programmed myself an exercise regimen to start off. It was for a thirty minute cycle .... After a labourious fifteen of them, with sweat pouring off me and heavy breathing heaving my chest, I decided it was enough for a first round. I had, after all - according to the screen - burned off 51 calories! So my partner, who was sitting in a distant corner at his computer paying bills, thought we should celebrate. We came across the courtyard and into the house to sit by the fire with a micro beer and potato chips!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now I realize that there is something quite wrong with this scenario. But life is made rich by inconsistency. Oh well.

Well, I knew the closing of the store and the too many hours of retail boredom would mean more living and less time writing for this blog. I can't believe that summer has come and more or less faded into a magnificent autumn. The fire wood stacking is all but done. The gardens have yet to be put to bed. Indeed, remarkably, to date, we have yet to have a killer frost - or a frost of any significance really. That is quite unusual.

John and I spent much of the summer at the lake. Indeed, because we were building a bunkie, we were there much of June. It felt like we actually lived at the cottage for the first time, and only occasionally visited the homestead to tend the house and gardens or to work for a few days here and there.

Although we have been at the lake now for 24 summers, this year exploded into a round of socializing like never before. And of course, I had my new sailboat/rowboat, christened "Whisky". Sailing on our small lake is quite a task. Sometimes the wind will come at you from three directions at once, or just when you think you have a steady wind, it will trick you and come from an entirely different direction.

I capsized on the maiden voyage trying to dock on our point; and another time I was thrown out of the boat while I was rigging it. What I really enjoyed, and what I had initially intended to buy it for, was rowing. And that I did abundantly, tracing the perimetre of the lake and all its bays. Of course, we had our usual canoe outtings and kayakiing. At time it seemed like we were the only ones enjoying this pristine beauty: sunrises, sunsets, rainbows and magnificent cloud formations.

Since I wrote last, I have had my sixtieth birthday in May. And in the same month, we had a wonderful trip to the east coast, touring Cape Breton for the first, but definitely not the last time. The boat was my present to myself, built by a local boat builder. It is not grand, but it is a joy.

At forty I bought a motorcyle and at fifty I bought a Jeep TJ. In the intervening years I decided on a PT Cruiser convertible. What next?

Trying to get into the Olympic spirit, John and I headed off to Ottawa this past weekend to, among other things, skate on the historic Rideau Canal.
First we had to rummage around one of our upstairs closets to find the skates we had not worn in 20 years – the last time being to skate on the canal in Ottawa after attending a Peace demonstration with younger friends. Finding the skates among the clutter, were tossed them into the back of the car, to be later dusted off once we had arrived in the nation's capital.
The canal was a beehive of activity. The weather was relatively mild for February. Skaters were both young and old. It was apparent that many of them had never been on skates before. That was reassuring. For never let anyone tell you that skating is like riding a bicycle. It is not. You do forget… or at least your equilibrium does. But before one gets there, I have to back track.
The skates were two decades dusty. But in dusting them off, it became apparent that mine at least had been home to one or more of those little creatures that cats love to bate. Not only did mouse droppings have to be shaken and brushed from the interior, but in doing so abundant bird seeds fluttered to the ground from the tips of the toes. Apart from this indignity, my skates appeared in relatively good condition. The blades were even relatively sharp.
John's skates evidenced little mouse activity. However, the faux leather trimming was cracked and split… literally crumbling to the touch.
Arriving at the canal from our hotel perched on the edge of the canal, we found a bench and proceeded to remove our shoes. It became readily apparent to me that my skates had diminished in size. There was no way my feet were going to be impressed into that small space.
John suggested that, like much of the rest of me, my feet had spread. How rude!
After some effort and considerable disappointment, my skates were clandestinely disposed of in a nearby garbage bin.
As John apprehensively wobbled off, I followed disgruntled in street shoes. Like a new born calf, John gradually gained his stride, his emotions passing from heightened diffidence to unabashed elation. But the distance to be travelled had shrunk in proportion to the increase in years. John was nevertheless proud and pleased as punch with his effort.
Not to be outdone, -I had told far too many incredulous people that we were going skating on the canal-, as John removed his skates, I placed them swimmingly on my feet. Yes, I would skate on the canal, briefly, uncertainly, but joyfully. John watched proudly from the sidelines.
Mission accomplished. Now, after discreetly tossing John's skates into a bin as well, a pint of beer was in order. We had skated on the canal!

Buster died this morning at 1:00 a.m. after a brief illness. For the past 11 years he has been an integral part of our family. We miss him at every turn. It is the First Times that are the most difficult: the first time I dropped food on the floor - as I am wont to do - and he was not there in an instant to clean it up; the first time I woke up and he was not there to nuzzle me; the first time a squirrel ran by the window and he did not become Buster the Indignant; the first time we took one of his favourite walks and his paw prints were still encrusted on the snow covered meadow...

He has shadowed our every step; enjoyed our friends and social gatherings, loved the walks, the boat rides and country drives. He loved our home and our cottage. We are glad for the magnificent memories; but already over the past 2 weeks had come to miss his wagging tail and high energy and playfulness. Thank you Buster for being so loving.

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.