Starry Starry Night

This has been a hard winter. It’s not the snow. There has been a lot. More this year than I can recall since the winter we moved in twenty years ago. But the cold. It’s been this cold before of course. But not for such an extended period. Minus 33 Celsius for days on end, and before wind chill is taken into account. Minus 21 on a regular basis. Today is mild. It’s only minus 1.

But snow and cold apart, it has been the ice that has laid us asunder. Treachery under foot and under wheels. Still, when the sun shines, as it is at this moment, it couldn’t be more glorious, more breathtaking and awe-inspiring.

This past Tuesday, I had to leave early for work. Early means up at 4:45 a.m. and departure from this hilltop by 6:00 a.m. I had to force my way out the door. In the night, we had had snow and blowing wind. The snow had piled thick and heavy against the screen door. I squeezed my way out, cautiously because of the thick ice that lay buried and ready to trip me up.

It was still snowing heavily. And there was a strong wind. The car, once cleaned off from as much snow as I could manage, inched its way down the steep drive through drift after drift. If it had not been a Jeep, I would never have made it. Mini lay covered in snow, hiding as a child who pulls up the covers tightly upon hearing mother’s “time to get up.”

The roads were not ploughed. Indeed, at times I was not really sure where the road was. But at half my usual speed, and in 4-wheel drive, I made it to the station just as the train pulled in. The day progressed as work days will, and soon it was time to head to the station for my journey home. I was tired.

I sat in a seat on the crowded train beside a man who was busy working on his laptop and talking on his i-phone at the same time. I could tell that a domestic dispute had erupted, and I uncomfortably shifted in my seat, pretending I was asleep.

The drive home was fine, but I dreaded what I might find upon my approach to our lane. And find it I did. A bank of heavy snow blocked the steep driveway. Beyond that was drift after drift of deep snow. There was no passage for even this Jeep.

I parked the car on the road and trudged up the hill to the shed, where our trusty snow-blower finds its home. It is now eighteen years old, but it has been well and regularly maintained and has served us well.

Yes, I was already exhausted. I would have preferred to head inside to light the fire and prepare my supper. But this monumental task had to be done first. The news on the car radio had been calling for freezing rain. An anathema. For even this mighty snow machine would not traverse thick and wet or icy mounds of snow.

But what sounds to be drudgery was anything but. It had turned into a dark and starry night. The moon was just rising. The wind had ceased. The air was crisp and the atmosphere clean and silent. Absolutely silent, for the snow muffled any distant traffic.

It took me a little more than an hour of up and down the hill, and a little more with a shovel to tidy up the evening’s labour. Then the Jeep glided up the hill, with a pristine wall of snow on either side. Yes, this had been a tiring end to a tiring day. But it had also been invigorating. A day spent sitting in car, on train and at one’ desk, on train again and in car yet again is death to energy. I had, however, rediscovered my energy, and now I was ready to go inside to a fire waiting to be lit and a supper waiting, at this late time, to be poured from a cereal box. And it felt good. Very good.

Ancient Cuban Cowboy

Travelling to VInales, three hours west of Havana, is like travelling back to a romantic vision of rural life 150 years ago. While Havana is large, chaotic and polluted, smaller Cuban cities and towns are clean, orderly, beautiful and very much functional. That is not to say Havana is not beautiful; it is, but in the manner of an impoverished and aged prima dona.
Of course the geography of this very large tropical island is stunning and Vinales is no exception. The earth is clay red and very fertile. The mountains are awe-inspiring and prehistoric. One can imagine the great Brontisaurus Rex appearing in the plains. The farmers on horseback with straw hats, the oxen pulling carts and ploughs, the campesinos hoeing the fields of tobacco, sugar cane, cattle feed, rice, pineapples, vegetables and more, the thatched barns, drying sheds and cottages - if there was ever a Shangrila, this was it. That is not to say life is not one of hard work, but it is one of richness and vitality, of community and song and of great pride.
So it was with excitement that John and I arranged for a horseback tour of the trails, farms, mountains and caves. I had not been on horseback in forty years. But I soon realized it was somewhat like riding a bike... one really never forgets how. Of course, I had learned to ride in the English style and this was the western style... but my learning served me well and kept me from bouncing uncomfortably. It was thrilling. And even more thrilling that we were communicating in Spanish... as faulty as our linguistic skills are.
When we stopped after two hours for lunch and to rest the horses, I was feeling invigorated and confident. Eager to dismount, my memory instantly clicked into play. I tossed my leg from the stirup as once I had. But my memory had forgotten that I was 40 years older, 50 pounds heavier and that I now had an artificial hip which somewhat resticts one's flexibility. The leg did not fly so high or so freely as it once had. Instead of landing me on the ground with finesse as the gymnast I had been in my youth, it caught on the hump of the saddle. I toppled indignantly to the ground on my back. I was saved only by the fact that I had landed on my full knapsack, which cushioned the fall. In the process, our lunch sandwiches were squished out of recognition. Fortunately, the only damage to myself was to my pride.
The horse seemed amused and certainly the guide and John were - at least once they had discerned that there was no blood or broken bone to be attended to. I had learned my lesson. The second part of the journey went very well and at the end of the four hour sojourn I dismounted cautiously and with the assistance of our guide.

My Day (2 November 2012)

I pen this verse to you my friends

To tell you of my day

Some men’s work never ends
Especially when partner’s away.

Today I did the washing
Of towels and sheets and shirts
Three loads I did, - no joshing
With other tasks in spurts.

I cleaned the eaves, so many
About the house, the barns and shed
No time to spend a penny
But spread manure instead.

The wind was cold and fiercely strong
It cut me to shiv’ring core
But clothes should not need long
Hung on the line secure.

With other chores time went by fast
And the laundry should be dry
But when I saw the line at last
You’ld have heard a grown man cry.

For there above in waving trees
A flock of birds had sat
Enjoying berries and the breeze
So happily they shat.

Yes, shat they did upon the lot
The whites and coloured things
No doubt you know I was besot
To see their spreading wings.

Today three loads of laundry done
And then two more of it
I wished I’d had a loaded gun
You bet, I swear, NO SHIT!

A Cherry Tree

A Cherry Tree

John got off to the airport Wednesday evening. Because of a tyre problem, my journey home through Toronto area rush hour took me 4 hours.... Anyway, I woke the next morning to a magnificent day - although when I rose (at 4:45 a.m. !) it was still dark and moonlit.

I blame this story in part on a certain Mr. Smallwood of Haslemere, Surrey, England. It was he who, long ago, introduced me to the pruning of trees. John and I both had agreed that this tree had to come down. John wanted it professionally done, despite my vigorous protestations.
Yesterday, I dressed for an autumn day - but it fast became a belated summer at 24C. A perfect day for garden work, and then I saw that cherry tree... only thirty, well maybe closer t forty, feet tall and about 1 1/2 feet in diameter at the bottom. I can do it I said to myself - and do it I did although it nearly "done me in"!
I realized the tree, which was split into three tall trunks about 15 feet up from the ground was of a questionable lean... Although it should be leaning, because of prevailing winds, away from the house, there was some doubt in my mind. So, I went in search of the tall stepladder, and with a trusty handsaw proceeded to cut away smaller branches overhanging the garden and drive... These were only about 3-4 inches in diameter.
Then I paused, looked up at the towering trio of trunks. Higher up they would be only about 8-10 inches in diameter. A chainsaw would be best - but hard to handle up a ladder and so high and with one hand, whilst the other would hold perilously onto anything that would sustain me.
So off I went to collect the tall extension ladder and propped it up high against the upper limbs. Mounting heavenward with my light and safer hand saw I climbed... and sawed... and sawed, with right hand, then left hand and even, with arm wrapped around one truck, with both hands.
Down they came, one by one crashing to the lawn below. What a mess of broken limbs and branches. And there stood the mighty pillar, branching out into three lopped-off heads - now only fifteen or sixteen feet in height.
By now I ached, had cramps, and was sweating like the proverbial pig. But I felt already like George Washington, that premier president from the land below. He could not tell a lie. (Well that likeness may go by the wayside when John returns - "What me? Alone? - Not I.") And he chopped down a cherry tree. And it got him the presidency of that renegade land. I know his tree was not the large wild cherry I had just hacked asunder.
But the pillar could not remain. So out came the chainsaw - the instrument that brings terror to John's mind - at least when I am handling it with abandon. It needed cleaning. It needed sharpening. So these were my first tasks. Then the pull and roar of the engine - music to my soul.
The saw attacked the tree with an eager vengeance - at first, but the deeper it got the more it struggled. I had to take it in steps aiming the fall away from the house, away from a stone wall and away from other trees and shrubs. When I was almost through, the tree started to lean - the wrong way, towards the house and some electrical wires.
Fortunately I had done my exercises that morning and with chainsaw screaming in one hand I pushed with the other, and pushed ... The tree co-operated. It fell with a thud onto the lawn where I had wanted it to go.
Next came the job of moving the debris - the many branches and their off-spring... and of chopping the trunk and larger limbs in to fireplace size logs.
I could only have wished I were done... but now comes the task of moving the logs, many of them, into the woodshed. That is this morning’s task. I could not face it yesterday.
And now also comes the task of hitching the trailer, loading it with the branches, and driving it to the lower field, unloading it and readying the pile to be burned on another day.
All in the day of a lonely country guy whose partner is walking the beaches of a far away tropical island. It's his fault!

The Visit

The Visit (August, 2012)
Who said curiosity killed the cat? It’s not true.
It all started with a visit to the farm by my nephew, his wife and two young children, aged three and six.
Blame the children!
Hugh and Stella are urban kids who love animals – especially horses and cows, though chickens and sheep are close contenders.
They arrived late on a very hot afternoon. Too much time in a car. A walk was needed, especially down to the neighbour’s farm, in search of cows which had sought the shelter of the large trees by the tiny country cemetery.
I was touched that soon after our meeting, Stella grabbed my hand unprompted and walked down the drive and up the lane with me towards the large old barn, not exactly a short distance away for little legs. Hugh followed a little more hesitantly but close behind, with parents and my partner John trailing.
Now this was not entirely a first meeting with Stella, but meetings had been fleeting. Hugh had been here before, but not often. But their parents had no doubt talked about us and chatted with them en route about going to visit their uncles on a farm.
Sitting in the car, Hugh, safely strapped into his child seat, had turned to Stella and proudly proclaimed: “They’re married you know”. “But what about a girl?” replied Stella inquisitively. “There’s no girl” retorted Hugh, knowingly. “Oh” said Stella as she turned and looked out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse at any four-legged creature.
At the barn, there were no cows, but there were sheep which timidly escaped into the barn and stood so that we could see them watching us through a low window in the stone wall. And we entered the old cemetery to find a large ringed bull lying placidly under a tree at the fence line. Hugh had been reluctant to enter the graveyard… but bravely garnered the courage of a toreador. Hugh and Stella approached and the Bull rose and ambled off to the herd of cows and young bulls grazing a little further off. Stella was on a mission and was oblivious to ancient gravestones and their stories.
As we strolled past the barn again on our way back to the house, a young cat, very like our once-upon-a-time Charlie in markings, came up to the children and teased them. This was no ordinary ferile barn cat. It was a flirt. The children were delighted.
As we headed back down the road, the young cat stoically followed at a distance. When we reached the foot of our drive, the cat hung back, as did we, waiting to see what might transpire. The cat joined us in the amble up the hill and the children and adults continued to delight in his presence.
Wherever the throng went, front porch, back hill, or in the many rooms inside, there went the cat, meowing at the window sill or door, trying to get inside to join the party whenever they party was inside. Sometimes, the cat managed to sneak in. When asked how the cat had gotten in, Hugh replied confidently, with a tip of his head, “The door …?”.
Being hot, the cat was first served water, then pate and cheese and finally milk. Black and white and moustached, as Charlie had been, it was quickly named Chaplin, although dad wanted to name it Hitler.
Waking the next morning after an evening of stories and champagne, it seemed the cat had spent the night on a chair on the deck outside near to where the children had slept. That morning, it kept up its resolve to be inside or wherever the activity seemed to be.
There was discussion that perhaps this too friendly, though somewhat shy cat had been cruelly dropped off, abandoned. It was discussed whether parents or uncles should adopt the kitten, and reason enough for not doing so was bantered around. With uncles newly released from care of much beloved pets, and parents travelling, there was no chance of adoption… The cat would have to return to the barn, where no doubt it had originated.
Chaplin seemed very like a female in her conduct. But when I had finally inspected her that morning, and reported that Chaplin was no female, but rather a very healthy boy, dad asked how I knew. Sheesh.
I replied with restrained amusement, “It has balls!”. “Oh” said dad fidgeting with his coffee mug, shamed by the guffaw spontaneously emitted by his loving wife.
The visit was too short. The young family was soon off on further journeys. Chaplin watched the car being loaded. He saw the children ensconced in their seats and sadly followed the car several paces as it headed off, before flopping to the ground in the shade of a shrub. There he lay, dejected, rejected once again and at such a young age. Life is cruel.
John decided it was time to drive the cat back to the barn, where our neighbour Mary would, no doubt continue to feed him. For he was not a sickly cat. Indeed his fur was shiny and he had a healthy glow.
But when John went to pick up Chaplin, he turned into quite another creature. It struggled and sank his young teeth deep into John’s tender hand. It would not let go. In agony and dripping blood, John smacked him on the head and letting go, Chaplin dropped spritely to the ground. Without losing a beat, he fled across the paddock, not looking back, gone into the long grasses and disappeared somewhere in the derelict barn on the other side of the fence.
It was still early morning. For the rest of the day the cat was nowhere to be seen. No doubt it had decided this was no longer a welcome hang about. Its uncertain life journey had begun – or continued. As my nephew later surmised, the moral of the story is “Never bite the hand that feeds you”.
The wound was nasty and sore. But I tended to John’s wound as we expressed our dismay at the turn of events.
But, the saga continues... After no sign of Chaplin all day, we took our supper of scrumptious leftovers to the highboy table under the umbrella on the patio. As I opened the screen door to go out, there sprawled on the patio, like a shameless playboy (or playgirl) centrefold, was Chaplin, purring and flirting, oblivious to his misdeed.... After dinner, and much seduction by said cat, I donned a pair of leather motorcycle gloves, and picked up adoring cat in my hands, all the while stroking and quietly talking to him... knowing full well that feline teeth could easily pierce leather gauntlets! But Chaplin was docile and resigned to his fate... he entered the car passively and sat quietly on the back seat while I drove him down the hill and up the lane to the barn. I drove into the farm yard, and there standing about were two inquisitive young cats - the same age as Chaplin and very like him in appearance. And lying by them was, apparently, an indifferent mother cat. They did not run... They watched, as if they had been expecting me....Now, Chaplin slowly left the car and walked over to a place near his mother and siblings and sat by them with his back, no doubt intentionally, turned to me... The cats all gathered round to hear his tale of high adventure....gutter to glam and back again (to steal a phrase from my nephew)..Sigh.I drove away and now wonder if Chaplin shall return with siblings for pate and milk.

I have not previously used this blog for political or legal analysis. This is an exception.
When a judge begins a written decision with reference to the "Supremacy of God", one likely needs to understand something of the judge's personal belief system and history. However, it is not something that should enter into the judicial process at all. Then, for the judge to quickly contextualize it with a reference to a Constitutional dislike of anarchists and an implied equating of the occupiers with such despicable folk, one needs to read no further into the recent, tainted judgment of the Ontario Superior Court of Justice ordering the eviction of the occupiers.
What does the Supremacy of God mean in the context of our Constitution, which governs our secular society. It means nothing and everything.
It means Nothing because the concept of God is not constitutionally defined. And that is with good reason: For every individual there is a different notion of God, regardless of the fixed dogmas of institutional religions. It usually suits the needs of the particular individual or group at a particular time in the individual's life or the group's evolution. It too often is used as a justification for not assuming personal responsibility for one's decisions.
So if the Constitutional notion of God is, as I previously stated, both nothing and everything, in what sense is it everything? Within our Constitutional framework, our Charter of Rights is based on the notion of certain freedoms, including the freedom of religion. That includes the freedom from religion: the right to not believe in any particular concept of God or to not believe in a God at all.
The Constitution is based on evolving democratic principles. The Charter within that Constitution is premised on dignity of the person, fundamental justice and equality. So God in our Constitutional sense embodies the natural order and achievement of these goals. God is, if anything, the striving for "Good".
Then, the Supremacy of God is as much or more in line with the goals of the occupiers as it is with the goals of the various levels of government, the banks, financial institutions and the large corporate interests.
When dignity, equality and justice are on the decline, as is too strikingly evidenced by the quickly growing gap between the rich and the poor, the increasing levels of homelessness, "under-housedness", the diminishing availability of stable employment, the increasing reliance on food banks and other forms of charity by those who never dreamt they might have to do so, the increasing inability of the average person to access our judicial system, our educational system and our health care system, then the Supremacy of God is squarely on the side of these occupiers.
The Constitutional God is not housed in the ivory towers of Bay street, the naves of the Cathedrals, the chambers of the courts or legislatures. That God is housed in those who would stand up to injustice.

Well here’s food for thought! My partner’s family, three generations of them, nine in all, descended upon us for four days and three nights. This included a brother and his spouse, three adult children in or approaching their thirties, two of their spouses, and two infants aged four months and three years.
Fortunately our home is large and there were beds for all. It was a wonderful laughter filled visit, which happily allayed the anticipatory fears of the hosts. It was a time for singing around the chiminea on a starry evening, swimming in the quarry, walks, bike rides, and gathering endlessly on the front porch overlooking the hills and fields around us. Collectively, we consumed twenty-two bottles of wine, one bottle of fine single malt scotch and a goodly portion of a fine aged Cuban dark rum.
We busily prepared the menu and the food so we would not be spending too much time in the kitchen and away from the hubbub once they arrived. We knew there was a vegan among them. We knew another one was lactose intolerant. We also knew the four-month old had been born with multiple food allergies and that this severely constricted the diet of the nursing mum. At the last moment, we also learned that another was on a strict diet, which involved no grains, no dairy, only certain nuts, and worse still - no alcohol. This person did eat meats if they were not processed. This provided a culinary challenge, but how much of a challenge had yet to be learned.
Upon an early rising, we concocted multiple salads in large quantities in advance of their late afternoon arrival. A salsa salad of fresh tomatoes, onion, cucumber, chickpeas and mango, was lightly tossed with fresh dill and basil in a refreshing white balsamic vinegar dressing. Chopped feta cheese was available on the side. A four-bean salad with fresh onion and cilantro was also prepared in a similar vinaigrette. A potato salad with a light mayonnaise dressing with a sprinkling of powdered mustard and complete with onion, red and yellow peppers, celery, (all finely diced), yellow beans and four chopped hard boiled eggs was tossed and sprinkled generously with fresh chives and parsley. A salad of black beans and corn kernels with chopped red onion, fresh cilantro, garlic and balsamic vinegar was a chef’s delight. And to satisfy the grain-free guest, we went in search of quinoa to make a tabuli salad. Bulgar and couscous would not do. Quinoa was not easy to find out here in the countryside, but we ultimately did - in a bulk food store twenty kilometers away. This was boiled and cooled and added to abundant chopped fresh parsley from the garden, onions, tomatoes, cucumber and chickpeas and then tossed with zest in olive oil and white balsamic vinegar with freshly diced garlic. A very generous chilled gazpacho soup was created from the finest vegetables for lunchtime indulgence. Humous, guacamole and black bean dips were made up as well as an organic salsa from local produce. Cheeses and paté were purchased. Breakfasts were planned with fruit salads (apples and pears from our trees, peaches from Ontario orchards and bananas and blueberries from who-knows-where), yoghurt, juice, and either fresh homemade muffins (made without butter), fresh baked croissants (made with abundant butter), home made fruit and nut loaf (also made without butter). Of course, coffee and various teas were always available. Together with the hamburger meat, veggie burgers and salmon burgers, the chicken breasts, pork tenderloins and salmon filets, the juices, spring water and wine and beer, we smugly felt well prepared indeed. And we were, - for the most part!
It turned out, however, that quinoa was viewed as a grain! Sigh. Later research indicated this was a debatable conclusion. And oh yes, our food-challenged guest could not eat anything with vinegar. Nix the salads – all of them! So a lovely black bean and corn salad was hastily prepared with corn kernels, fresh onion, tomato, cilantro and parlsey and a dressing of only virgin olive oil. At dinner we noticed that he had meticulously hand-picked every kernel of corn from the mixture and piled it on the side of his plate. This would have taken great patience and co-ordination; so is a feat to be admired. Oh yes, we learned that fresh corn is a grain too.
As it was three of the almost-thirtys’ birthdays within weeks of each other, we had a birthday celebration gathered around the table. This went on late into the night. There was a fine meal topped off with a double-chocolate layer cake and lactose-free ice-cream. And our food-challenged guest had two, albeit small, helpings of that devilishly delicious dessert! One could only laugh.
And laugh we did from morning to night for four days of endless chatter.
Our solitary lunch, once they had driven down the hill and out of sight, was a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a glass of milk!

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.