tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191559612024-03-07T02:56:39.422-05:00Baron It AllYou can observe a lot just by watching.
--Yogi BerraFrank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.comBlogger191125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-79221404822194733832016-02-01T11:58:00.000-05:002016-02-01T11:58:11.353-05:00Well, I Didn't Say ForeverApparently someone on the Interweb left this thing plugged in. And here I thought Blogger was slain by Facebook.
I may have to blow the dust off my keyboard and write something.
If I can scrape the rust off my brain....Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-70153962711957771402013-07-25T00:14:00.000-04:002013-07-25T00:14:03.615-04:00Aloha, Farewell, Thank You (#248)And I hope we'll meet again.
I'm just not sure when, or if, it'll be here.<br />
<br />
Way back umpteen years ago, I used to write a few goofy emails and send them to some online friends. One day, one of those friends who shall remains nameless (of course it was Hilary) double-dog dared me to commit to a weekly, goofy email, and expand the list of recipients.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm not one to be double-dog-dared trifled with. Them of you who's reading this, and who may have known me for a considerable amount of time, know that to be a fact.<br />
<br />
So, I wrote some goofy columns, even weekly 'til I got lazy, and then the whole blogging thing happened and I started posting them there - as well as - and eventually instead-of, the weekly emailed offering.<br />
<br />
And so it went.<br />
<br />
Some of you will recall a few months ago I mentioned that Hilary and I were looking for a lakeside place we could call home. In fact, before we found it, we decided it would be called The Nest. Our nest. A comfortable place to settle and enjoy the sunset of our years.<br />
<br />
Well, a goodly number of you folks already know this for reasons which will be made clear momentarily, but for the few remaining among you - we found The Nest. And we're moving in over the next few weeks.<br />
<br />
My life, our lives, are going to be considerably different than they've been. Hilary and I are both leaving homes in which we've invested the majority of our lives - where the bulk of our families and friends live. Neither of us knows anyone where we're going except for our real estate agent. It's a new path, in a new place, and likely the last home in our lives.<br />
<br />
Aside from learning where the walleye/trout/muskie/pike/bass/whitefish and crappie are lurking at various times of the year, I'm going to be busy learning a lifestyle more closely aligned with the rhythms of Mother Nature. I'll be watching the sky and waters and checking wind direction and cloud movements on a near-hourly basis, instead of whenever I'm heading "out."<br />
<br />
We'll be living "out."<br />
<br />
I'm excited and a bit trepidatious. It's a big change for both of us and for our children. But I'm quite sure our new path holds surprises, wonders, and uh-oh moments galore.<br />
<br />
You'll see pictures from me, from time to time. (And regularly from Hilary, if you wisely hook up to <a href="http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.ca/">her blog</a>.)<br />
<br />
But I'm not certain there'll be much more in the way of Baron It All's.
One way to catch up on my (and other interesting folks') happenings, would be to join us at the online version of <a href="http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/">The Nest</a>. It's a small, eclectic, and interesting little community. (And you dasn't hasta' pay a cent.)<br />
<br />
I try to check in there daily, though appearances may be a tad scanty whilst we're moving. As of this writing, we haven't lined up an internet provider yet but we know for sure it won't be the cable-based variety we're used to.<br />
<br />
###############<br />
<br />
I mentioned Hilary's blog above and for those of you who have not yet seen the photos, <a href="http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.ca/2013/06/home-sweet-home.html">here's a link to a previous blog of hers</a> wherein she posted some shots of our soon-to-be home.<br />
<br />
###############<br />
<br />
Thanks to those of you who've been reading my drivel for years, most especially to those of you who also bought my book and STILL read the ensuing drivel. I question your taste but admire the heck out of your moxie.<br />
<br />
And I am, and will be, eternally grateful for the kind words you've tossed my way over the years. Thanks much.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-53729304343503753922013-05-15T15:37:00.000-04:002013-05-15T18:48:31.350-04:001971 & RIP To A Journalism Giant (#247)1971 was the most memorable year of my life. I’d taken a year off after high school graduation to make some money and travel. Spent several months hitchhiking around Europe. Celebrated my 20th birthday sitting on a cold, rainy, sandflea-infested beach in western Scotland, shaking with fever and trying to stay dry while holding a pathetic little piece of plastic over my head.<br />
<br />
It was a time of meeting people from around the world, visiting historic sites and generally expanding my horizons.<br />
<br />
In the fall of that year, I started my first year of University in London, Ontario, in order to study Journalism.
Also in the fall of that year, the storied newspaper, the Toronto Telegram, folded. As a media junkie, this was huge news. Delivering the “Tely” was my first job as an 11-year-old and I mourned its passing. I hated the thought of the Toronto area being stuck with the fat-cat newspaper, The Star.<br />
<br />
Luckily, from the ashes of the Tely sprung a feisty tabloid, the Toronto Sun. Within 48 hours of the last Tely hitting the street, the first issue of the Sun did likewise. It was the brain-child of Doug Creighton, Don Hunt and editor-in-chief, Peter Worthington.<br />
<br />
I had two Journalistic heroes in those days. One was the great Hunter S. Thompson, the man who put gonzo into Journalism, shattering the stereotype of the blandly objective reporter.<br />
<br />
The other was Peter Worthington. I’ll not detail his career. (I'll let him do it below.) But he did it all, saw it all and reported it all. He was courageous, joining the Canadian Navy at 17 to take part in WWII. As an officer, he lead troops in the North Korean conflict. Later, as a reporter, he filed stories from most war zones around the world. When Lee Harvey Oswald was shot by Jack Ruby, Peter was there, just feet away.<br />
<br />
His relationship with the Sun was stormy. He probably quit or was fired umpteen times and returned to work the following day. Eventually, he left the paper only to return as a contributing writer some years later.<br />
<br />
I loved the columns he wrote about his life-long love affair with Jack Russell Terriers. Having bonded with my own JRT the past half-dozen years, I understand better his fascination with them. They’re much like Worthington himself - curious, intelligent and amazingly stubborn.<br />
<br />
Well, you know where this is going. Peter Worthington died Monday night at the age of 86. It’s difficult to be sad about a person living a long, full life and then passing quietly.<br />
<br />
But I am sad. I’ll miss his wry humour and wisdom.<br />
<br />
Today, 1971 seems like a very long time ago.<br />
<br />
####<br />
<br />
Leave it to Worthington to <a href="http://www.torontosun.com/2013/05/14/peter-worthington-in-his-own-words">write his own obituary</a>. I hope you'll take the time to check it out. It's a heckuva lot more interesting than what I wrote.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-85420931863292350632013-04-15T16:00:00.000-04:002013-04-15T16:00:22.085-04:00Fundamentalism, Maturity & A Cute Puppy (#246)As many of you know, I grew up in a staunchly Catholic home and was educated in the Catholic school system. I remember in Grade 1, we had a little primer with questions and answers about the faith. The very first q and a was:<br />
<br />
Q - Who made you?<br />
<br />
A - God made me.<br />
<br />
I drifted away from the Church when I was about 15 but some indoctrination sticks forever - like that first question in my Grade 1 Religion book.<br />
<br />
It’s popped into my head a few times lately because I’ve been involved in some online arguments with fundamentalist Christians. A topic that continuously burns their behinds* is homosexuality/gay marriage. They claim it’s an abomination because their bible says so. Doesn’t seem to matter it also says a bunch of other things are abominations, like eating shellfish, sharing a bed with a menstruating woman or offering an imperfect animal to sacrifice to God. I mean, what animal is perfect? They can overlook some abominable behaviour I guess - but not man-to-man or woman-to-woman loving. <br />
<br />
(They are, by the way, absolutely incapable of noting the hypocrisy involved when it comes to biblical cherry-picking.)<br />
<br />
But I shouldn’t tar them all with the same brush. The more enlightened among fundamentalists will allow that it’s okay to be gay - just as long as their naughty bits don’t press against, or into each other. They graciously allow gays to be who they are, as long as they don’t actually <i>act</i> on it.<br />
<br />
So, I ask them - why did God make homosexuals if he’s really not that fond of what they do? <br />
<br />
And the answer, of course, is that God did no such thing. He made everyone hetero but darned if some of the miscreants didn't <i>choose</i> to be gay - which of course, earns them a one-way ticket to Hellsville.<br />
<br />
Now, I don’t give a flying fig newton whether a person believes in a god, gods, nothing, or a Cosmic Muffin - as long as their beliefs aren’t inflicted on others. And by far the majority of Christians I know are fine, decent people who believe in living and letting live.<br />
<br />
But fundamentalists are another kettle of fish. They want to turn the clock back to the good old days, around 113 AD, and actively work to elect politicians who reflect their antediluvian views.<br />
<br />
(Which reminds me: The big flood and Noah’s ark and saving all the animals? Never happened. Couldn’t have happened. Could. Not. Have. Happened.)<br />
<br />
I really don’t care that many/most fundamentalists are Young Earth Creationists (YECs) who ignore Science and think the world is 6,000 years old and that Noah had baby dinosaurs on board and evolution is a myth but the Garden of Eden is not.<br />
<br />
But I do care that they spread their ignorance, bigotry and mean-spiritedness whenever and wherever possible.<br />
<br />
And I will continue to wage (verbal) war on them.<br />
<br />
####<br />
<br />
Had a couple of thoughts, actually definitions, of maturity lately. Wrote them down. The first was originally a definition of what I thought a “real” man was. And it went like this: <i>A real man is one who does what needs doing - without complaint or expectation of reward.</i><br />
<br />
I was pretty happy with that. I mean, it’s fridge magnet material. <br />
<br />
Upon pondering further, I realized that it could certainly apply to either gender, so I revised it to:<i> A mature person is one who...</i>etc.<br />
<br />
And then, even though I’d had the above thought only a few weeks before - I was beset by a second one! Two thoughts about maturity in a matter of months! If I’m not careful, I’ll become a pundit.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here’s the second: <i>True maturity arrives the day we realize we can no longer fool ourselves.</i> <br />
<br />
Uh-huh. No sucking in the gut in front of the mirror. No pretending your hair is turning platinum blond instead of gray. That admiring look from the cute cashier? It was really pity.<br />
<br />
####<br />
<br />
Gonna wrap this one up with a picture of a cute puppy. Everybody loves pictures of cute puppies.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/August%20Part%20One/Fencedpooch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/August%20Part%20One/Fencedpooch.jpg" width="348" /></a></div>
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* Heh-heh.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-36966626131565735182012-12-14T20:02:00.000-05:002012-12-14T20:02:55.061-05:00An Open Letter To AmericaHello my Southern Brother. I bring greetings and a message.<br />
<br />
That was the greeting.<br />
<br />
This is the message:<br />
<br />
It’s time to grow up. Growing up means looking around and seeing what is really true. What is really true is your society is fecked and all the John Waynes in the world cain’t hardly fix it.<br />
<br />
How many of your children do you need to see killed by your own people’s hands - with the guns you make so readily available - before you begin to suspect that maybe, just maybe, your almighty worship of the 2nd Amendment is a bit - well, so 19th century? (I sincerely and deeply apologize for the previous sentence. Parse it at your risk.).<br />
<br />
It’s 2012. Most of the developed world’s citizens handle gun ownership sensibly. Only one of them still considers it a Divine Right of The Only God That Matters.<br />
<br />
That would be YOU, USA. You, who continue to kill your children in your schools. Or movie-goers in their theatres. Or wherever a crowd - and future, fleeting internet/tv glory - abides.<br />
<br />
Your gun-worshipping culture is killing your children at a rate that appals the rest of the world. Yet here and there, I see and hear pockets of Americans whispering the heresy of...gasp...gun control. They are quickly and vociferously drowned out by the outraged Gun Worshippers and their well-funded PR machine.<br />
<br />
They even somehow manage to spin their voodoo to suggest that only gun-totin’ “real” Americans are favoured by Jesus Christ All-Mighty His Own Self. And that pencil-necked Liberal pansies are first in line for eternal fiery torment - so help ya’ god.<br />
<br />
And so it goes.<br />
<br />
On and on.<br />
<br />
The heartbreak of torn-apart families. The burials of small children who had no understandable, earthly reason to be dead so soon. Communities, teachers, parents everywhere living with a new nightmare.<br />
<br />
It’s very wrong. And I think making guns, especially handguns and assault weapons, more difficult to buy, would go a long way towards stopping horrors like that of Dec. 14th, 2012 in Newtown Connecticut.<br />
<br />
At least talk about it. Nobody is taking guns away. Just talk about making them a little tougher to get and their owner vetted more closely.<br />
<br />
In Canada, if you want to buy a gun you need to get a Firearms Acquisition Certificate. In order to get said certificate, you need to pass a police check and a firearms safety course. Then, and only then, can you purchase a gun and ammunition.<br />
<br />
If you feel the need to carry a handgun because of your business or the fact you belong to a gun club, you apply for a permit to buy and carry one. As far as I know, this may require a deeper background check and/or more training with a weapon before the handgun permit is issued.<br />
<br />
If taking one more course, or having to purchase one more permit, or having to wait two more weeks, means one more whacko flips out BEFORE getting his hands on a piece - all of society will benefit.<br />
<br />
So please, my Brother By A Southern Mother, just talk about it.<br />
<br />
Don’t bury more of your children. It doesn’t need to be like this.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-10064597342720306862012-11-03T17:11:00.001-04:002012-11-03T17:39:56.333-04:00Still Alive - Still Not Funny (#245)A couple of months ago, a friend wrote that while she enjoyed the pics I posted in my Canon Fodder blog, she missed my writing. Especially from way-in-the-long-ago when I used to be funny. As a reminder, she pointed to the <a href="http://www.frankbaron.com/baronitall.htm">sample column</a> on my website - posted half an eon or so ago.
I hadn't read it in several years so I went to the site and, despite sore lips from tackling the sports pages the night before, I perused the whole darn thing.<br />
<br />
Yep. Not much doubt.
I used to be funny.
In case that posted piece was a fluke, I checked a few other oldies. (Hilary was kind enough to compile my first few years' worth of columns into a book, so the checking was pretty easy.)<br />
<br />
Muttering, reading, and flicking pages, there was no denying it: <i>that</i> Frank Baron was an amusing dude.<br />
<br />
Concerned, I turned to the people who know and love me best.<br />
<br />
"Son #1, when's the last time you thought I was funny?"<br />
<br />
"Looking? I'd have to say now. Ha-ha-ha!"<br />
<br />
I should have known better and turned to Son #2. Same question.<br />
<br />
"You mean funny looking? Right now! Ha-ha-ha!"<br />
<br />
Strange how some apples roll quite a distance from the tree.<br />
<br />
I could depend on Hil, pretty sure.
"Hil, think before you answer: When's the last time you thought I was funny?" <br />
<br />
"Um...I guess it was this morning when you were sleeping. Your hair was sticking straight up on one side and drool was puddling into your beard. Although ... that wasn't as funny as yesterday when you tried to button up that old jean jacket. You looked like a blue sausage! Ha-ha-ha!"<br />
<br />
Now, I didn't just tumble off the turnip truck yesterday. I'm not as dumb as some people, probably. And if nothing else, even though I may have lost my sense of humour, I still have the hard-won maturity that comes part and parcel with 61 years on the planet. In other words, I can accept reality.<br />
<br />
So folks, if you want a chuckle from me, drop me a line and I'll send you a photo.<br />
<br />
UPDATES<br />
<br />
- We're still looking for a waterfront home. We thought we found one last month but it didn't work out. We're checking out a couple of new possibles next week.<br />
<br />
- Remember when I was trying to lure you folks to the message board I set up? Well, I'm still in lure-mode. Some of you have joined. Some of you visit as "guests." But MOST of you are still reluctant to check it out. Consider this a nudge. (The full-fledged, all-out whining, begging, guilt-tripping and crying will occur when we're settled in the new place.)<br />
<br />
All you need do is visit http://<a href="http://www.runboard.com/">www.runboard.com</a>. To join, just make up a user name and password. (I use my real name there but most folks use a nickname.) Once you've joined the overall Runboard community, you can visit any of the message boards set up there, including The Nest. The URL for it is: http://<a href="http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/">bwritersnest.runboard.com/</a><br />
<br />
I hope to see you there.
Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-89273835097009642092012-06-21T16:09:00.000-04:002012-06-21T16:09:23.143-04:00What The Flux! (#244)<i>Noun 1. state of flux - a state of uncertainty about what should be done (usually following some important event) preceding the establishment of a new direction of action - The Free Dictionary</i><br />
<br />
Yep. That s'plains it. That's howcum I haven't posted here in six months. I was fluxing.<i> </i>I meant to post. But I was fluxing my fool head off.<br />
<br />
Life has been weird - but in an unusual way this time: It's been interesting and fun and busy. For the first time in my adult life (which, for those who don't know me well, extends some 40+ years) I don't have to worry about paying next month's bills. Or the month after.<br />
<br />
Hilary and I are looking for a house together, someplace in Ontario's cottage country. We want to be on a lake and live there year-round. So, much of my time the past few months has been engaged in that pursuit.<br />
<br />
I'd never really considered the fact that at 60 (okay, 61) such a path would open. But it has, and as my guru Yogi Berra once opined: When you come to a fork in the road - take it.<br />
<br />
So, we're taking it.<br />
<br />
However, it's a big step for anyone at any age: moving from what has been home for more than 25 years to some place new. But the prospect of waking every morning and looking upon a lake and forests where wildlife abounds is incredibly exciting. My somewhat-dormant fishing skills will be reawakened by the challenge of learning the ins and outs of a new lake. Our cameras are drooling at the prospect of photographing birds, deer, moose and possibly bears and wolves.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, as we search for the right place, there is much to keep us busy here. Offspring need to be schooled on taking care of a house. ("What? House taxes? Really?") We still live in different cities, so traveling back and forth eats up days at a time.<br />
<br />
Aside from taking new forks and fluxing, I've been working at keeping The Nest off the ground. You remember, it's that message board thing that a few of you have joined, and a few others have peeked at. Slowly but surely, it's evolving into a pleasant and interesting place to spend a little online time. I'm going to keep bugging you folks about it periodically and am fully confident that within a couple of years, many dozens, perhaps hundreds, will have joined.<br />
<br />
Once settled into the new place (we're going to call it The Nest too) I hope to do more writing. Not necessarily more blogging but that may happen as well. I just might have another book or two in me. We'll see.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'll post photos with some degree of regularity at my Canon Fodder blog. I still have quite a backlog of pics to upload.<br />
<br />
And remember, you'll be welcome at The Nest. All you need to do is join the <a href="http://www.runboard.com/" target="_blank">Runboard Community</a> (free) at: http://www.runboard.com/ and then if you visit: http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/ you'll be at <a href="http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/" target="_blank">The Nest</a>.<br />
<br />
Come on over. I guarantee you'll meet new people whose company you'll enjoy and you just might meet a familiar face or two as well.<br />
<br />
So long 'til next time. Hope all's well in your worlds.<br />
<br />
<br />Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-19034467752123147132011-12-24T12:36:00.000-05:002011-12-24T12:36:56.080-05:00Merry EverythingLast week at Hilary's I went for a wee walk one evening, camera in tow. Had what I thought was a clever idea for a Christmas post on my photo blog: wander around the streets and take night shots of the Christmas lights and displays on folks' lawns.<br />
<br />
So, I did. Most of the shots were okay but something was missing. Snow, for one. Southern Ontario is green and Christmas lights lose some zing without that white backdrop. Reviewing the pics, I reluctantly decided to shelve the idea.<br />
<br />
One photo kept nagging at me, though. I liked it. Somehow, it hinted at perhaps my favourite aspect of Christmas: a child's wonder.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/July%2011%20Part%201/Silverdeer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="797" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/July%2011%20Part%201/Silverdeer.jpg" width="619" /></a></div><br />
Yeah, a chubby elf-like balloon and a silver deer. But it works for me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">###</div><br />
I'm a longtime Dave Letterman fan. Been watching him and Paul do their thing for about 30 years. I try never to miss his Christmas broadcast, mostly because it features Darlene Love singing Christmas (Baby, Please Don't Go). <br />
<br />
Every year she's wonderful. Every year, I wonder if she can possibly pull it off again. She answered this year's question last night.<br />
<br />
I hope you all find a measure of peace and contentment this season and that it sustains you throughout a healthy and prosperous 2012.<br />
<br />
Now, let's enjoy Ms. Love's 25th appearance on Dave's show, doing what she does best: creating a joyful noise and offering it up to the world.<br />
<br />
Crank up those speakers, do up those seatbelts, and have yourselves a very Merry Christmas!<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zWdyyNmE3O0" width="560"></iframe>Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-41761498363319346562011-12-08T20:23:00.000-05:002011-12-08T20:23:45.730-05:00An Evening On The Deck & Another Thing (#242)We’re deep into the first week of December and evening’s curtain descends early. The clocks went back a few weeks ago and it’s only a few sleeps ‘til the longest night. It’s cloudy, so full dark will arrive by 5:00. <br />
<br />
It’s 3:30 and I’m standing on the back deck, surveying my yard, camera within arm’s reach. The feeders are full and seed has been spread on the ground, on the pillars of the deck, and upon various flat surfaces within the yard. It’s breezy and verging on pretty-darn-cold-ish, about 2C (35F). I have my warmest sweatshirt on – a thick, black, hooded beastie that zips up the middle. It’s layered over a regular sweatshirt which tops a t-shirt. Blue jeans (over jockeys if you <i>must</i> know) adorn my lower unit. My feet are in semi-warm socks and your garden variety house slippers. I have a baseball cap on, backwards, so I can angle the camera vertically without the bill of the cap interfering. I realize the slippers are a weak point. But for now, I am comfortable. <br />
<br />
I sip a fortified beverage and await visitors.<br />
<br />
As does Ben, the Jack Russell Terror.<br />
<br />
Which, I’m sure you’ll understand, limits the visitors to those whom Ben tolerates. Generally speaking, if they sport wings, he tolerates them. (Unless he’s only had one walk that day and there’s no squirrels around. On those relatively rare occasions, he may chase anything -- while doing his best to convince himself and any appreciative human onlookers, how that mourning dove might possibly, kinda, if the sun was in your eyes just so, have looked a little like it could have been a squirrel.)<br />
<br />
Most afternoons my favourite wee birds, the chickadees, are the first to arrive. If the blue jays are in the hood, they’ll swoop down right away as well. They want those peanuts before those dang squirrels get ‘em.<br />
<br />
There are four of those dang squirrels, all of whom are black. Having watched the family throughout the spring and summer, we refer to them as Mom and One/Two/Three Of The Triplets. Normally, at any given time, one or all of them are scouting the yard for goodies, whilst keeping a wary eye/ear out for Ben. <br />
<br />
It is these interlopers for whom Ben has sworn eternal enmity. Luckily for the squirrels - for all of us, really - Ben is quite un-terrier-like when actually in a position to do damage. I’ve seen him catch a squirrel. Twice. Each time, he took a half-hearted nip of squirrel tail and stopped – waiting for his prey to regain its equilibrium and the chase to re-begin.<br />
<br />
Wise Momma Squirrel had Ben figured early, of course. She knew exactly how high he could jump and stayed just out of reach. (Why did the words, “how like a woman” just leap into my head?) In any event, her progeny, though not so self-assured as Momma, soon learned Ben’s moves and reacted (or not) accordingly.<br />
<br />
Tonight there are no chickadees or jays. But I’m thrilled with a couple of visits by a female Downy woodpecker to a suet basket hanging within decent range of my zoom lens. During two visits to the suet, totaling perhaps three minutes, I shoot nearly 100 frames. (You’ll likely see the best of the results on my photo blog one of these months.)<br />
<br />
By the time the Downy leaves the second time, darkness is enfolding the yard. I shoo Ben inside and he doesn't argue much. It's getting cold for real. I re-fortify my beverage and return to the deck.<br />
<br />
The squirrels, two of them, are enjoying Ben’s absence. As usual, they take no notice of me. The clumsy Two-Legs-Who-Brings-Food is no cause for alarm.<br />
<br />
Full dark in a few. <br />
<br />
The sparrows arrive in a noisy conglomeration, 25 strong. And leave in a flurry, after a quick nosh.<br />
<br />
The usual latecomers, the juncos and mourning doves, arrive next. It’s too dark to photograph critters and has been for several minutes. I put the camera in the house and fend off Ben’s half-hearted attempt to follow, before heading back outside for a few more moments.<br />
<br />
Clouds mottled with magenta and purple drift over the western horizon. The temperature has plummeted with the light, and darn-near as dramatically. I realize I can’t feel my toes. Darn stupid old age and stupider post-stupid-heart-attack circulation! 10 years ago, it would’ve taken another hour or two and standing knee-deep in river water before I numbed out.<br />
<br />
A soft <i>tik-tik</i> in the near-dark of the cedar hedge heralds the arrival of the latest visitors to Chez Baron. So, I postpone my departure for a bit, rocking side-to-side and trying to flex my toes. A male and female cardinal are always the last to arrive. I can just barely make out their silhouettes along the fence.<br />
<br />
But it’s too-soon fully dark and I’m too-soon cold to the bone, despite the fortifying beverages. I’m grateful for the warmth my house offers. And grateful that I could watch Ben squabble with the squirrels and the birds gather to feed and a sunset that kissed the sky goodnight with passionate colour.<br />
<br />
I remind myself that winter doesn’t last forever. And that a guy in longjohns and a snowmobile suit can stay pretty darn toasty for hours without moving a heck of a lot.<br />
<br />
C’mon winter. I’m ready.<br />
<br />
####<br />
<br />
The Other Thing<br />
<br />
I did something that kind of surprised me last week. I started a message board.<br />
<br />
“What the heck is a message board, Frank?” some of you ask.<br />
<br />
Well, it’s like Facebook. Ish. Only older-tech. Sorta’. It’s a place on the interweb where folks can have a leisurely conversation with each other, or post a joke or cartoon or link to something they find interesting.<br />
<br />
Anyway, initially I thought I’d start one that was mostly of interest to writers. Because writing is a major interest of mine. <br />
<br />
But so, I realized, is photography and the outdoors and fishing and music and art and philosophizing and opining about various subjects. So, whether or not you have an interest in writing, I hope you’ll take a peek and consider joining. All you need do is invent a user name and a password. Then post a howdy-do in the Introductions area (or anywhere) and before you know it, you’ll be message-boarding!<br />
<br />
Drop me a line if you have any questions or difficulties.<br />
<br />
The board is called Writer’s Nest and you can find it here: <a href="http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/">http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/</a><br />
<br />
Hope to see a few old friends, make a few new ones, and get to know some of you a lot better.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-72384651300816667402011-10-26T15:40:00.000-04:002011-10-26T15:40:05.444-04:00Pulling A Thoreau (#241)I’ve been preoccupied the past several months - to such an extent that I’ve hardly written a word.<br />
<br />
“Frank,” I hear those of you who’ve been paying some attention say, “we know you’ve been darn busy playing with your spiffy new camera and lenses. We understand. Go forth and shoot.”<br />
<br />
Godblessya’. But there’s been more occupying my mind than photography: I’m house-hunting. More specifically, I’m hunting for my Dream Retirement Forever Home, or in an abbreviated form, the Next Place. As you might imagine, not just any old house will do. I have specific requirements. Some of them are:<br />
<br />
It has to be a 4-season, waterfront home with either a few acres of its own, or abutting Crown land on one or both sides. (Crown land is undeveloped wilderness tracts. Most Canadian cottages are built on lakes which contain large-ish chunks of Crown land. Our family cottage, with which most of you folks are somewhat familiar, abuts Crown land on one side. Its proximity makes it possible to truly live on the doorstep of the Great Outdoors.)<br />
<br />
It has to have one or two small guest cabins, or “bunkies.” I’d prefer a couple. One could be used exclusively for visitors and I could use the other to hide from Hilary when something needs doing.<br />
<br />
Haha! That was most likely a joke.<br />
<br />
But I really wouldn’t mind my own little cabin/cubbyhole in which to write and think. Or at least think about writing. It would be the grown-up version of a tree house or fort. Heck, I might even store a box or two of my old comic books in there.<br />
<br />
The Next Place has to be relatively maintenance-free because I’m no handyman. And to the surprise of none of you, the lake has to have some decent fish in it, preferably walleye. <br />
<br />
Complicating matters somewhat is the fact that I’m no longer single, or 30 years old. If I was, I could have my pick of places that suited my requirements and get change back from $200,000. But I’d also be about two or three hours from anything resembling civilization.<br />
<br />
So, at 60 and with a life partner who also has certain requirements, the search has become somewhat lengthy and complex. Compromises had to be made.<br />
<br />
For instance, Hilary is concerned about the proximity of medical facilities. Apparently, she is not convinced that my Stupid Heart Attack was totally a once-in-a-lifetime fluke. She would like a hospital to be next door but will accept one within a half-hour drive. Whereas I’m content to be within a 2-hour helicopter ride of someone who’s taken St. John Ambulance training.<br />
<br />
So, we’ve compromised. The Next Place has to be within a 30-minute drive of Highly Trained Medical Professionals, preferably in a hospital setting. <br />
<br />
Yeah, I won that round.<br />
<br />
We agree that it would be nice to be within a few minutes' drive of necessities, like a newspaper and gas. I’d like to be within a couple of hours of Bowmanville where I live now and that would put us three hours from Mississauga, where most of Hilary’s people are. It would also be nice to be within an hour or so of the family cottage. We would both like to be within a half-hour of most amenities, like grocery and department stores.<br />
<br />
So, I’ve narrowed the search to roughly three geographic areas. Somewhere within them, lies the place where I want to set my bones down for as long as I have left. It will have water and trees and loons and herons and raccoons and deer and even a bear or two. There will be paths to walk and new ones to forge. There will be misty summer mornings and cold November rains, roasting marshmallows and chopping wood. There will be fresh air aplenty and long, lingering doses of what my soul drinks and town and city life simply can’t offer -- silence.<br />
<br />
My Walden awaits. I’ll keep you posted.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-29172883541407181352011-08-23T15:50:00.001-04:002011-08-23T15:56:07.186-04:00On Turning 60 (#240)Earlier this summer, to my mild surprise, I turned 60. (When you have a Stupid Heart Attack at 53, every birthday afterwards is something of a surprise.) Every brand-new decade is significant of course, and a good place to pause and reflect. Fortunately, pausing is one of the things that’s easier to do when you’re 60. In fact, from a standing start, I can pause right into a semi-coma without hardly trying.<br />
<br />
I reflected some and concluded there’s not gonna be too many more new decades to pause and reflect from, so maybe I’d best get started.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know what people are saying: 60 is the new 50. (42 if you had surgery.) Tell that to my knees when I’m heading uphill. Which reminds me. Why the heck is nearly everything uphill nowadays? Bad enough when one’s body starts going bad on him. Don’t need the earth tilting on its axis to aggravate the situation.<br />
<br />
Anyway, as can happen when dotage sneaks up on you, sometimes reflecting turns into remembering when...<br />
<br />
<i>...I rode my bike really fast. It only had one gear but that was all I needed. It was red and white and I’d turned the handlebars around to face forward, like a Texas Longhorn steer. Look out world - Frankie’s coming! I stood up on the pedals and pumped, rocking side to side, in order to climb the hills. When crested, I’d sit back down, take my hands off the handlebars and hold them high overhead, catching the breeze as bikeandi, conjoined, flew downhill.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>...During summer holidays, I’d sneak out of the house at 3:00 a.m., hop on my bike, call on my buddy, and we’d ride upwards of 10 miles out of town to go fishing. Every time a car’s headlights appeared, we’d pull over and hide in the ditches or tall grass that lined the road, lest it be one of our parents discovering we’d left four hours earlier than we said we would.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>...I could lope the mile and a half from school to home without breathing hard.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>...I stood, trembly-legged, at Laurie Simmons’ back door and kissed her full on the lips after an evening of holding hands while ice skating.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>...I sat on a porch on a summer night with friends, playing guitar, singing songs, sipping brew, passing joints and living forever.</i><br />
<br />
And then...somehow I was a father of two boys and working six or seven days a week. Things got blurry and darned if I don’t wake up one day and find out I’m 60 and reflecting all over heck’s half-acre.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it’s not too bad. There are pluses to being an old fart. You get discounts on stuff at some stores. It’s fun watching cashiers feign surprise when I confidentially inform them (in a loud stage whisper) that I’m a Senior.<br />
<br />
Now, I no longer need an excuse to be cranky. Age suffices. I can glower and mutter with impunity. It’s darn liberating.<br />
<br />
Mostly though, my reflections run toward feelings of gratitude. I’m extremely blessed that my boys have grown into such fine young men. I’ve been lucky enough to have loved and been loved by good women. (And love, and am loved by another!)<br />
<br />
All things considered, my health is pretty good. I’m very grateful for that. I can still heave a 50 lb. bag of birdseed over my shoulder and carry it to the car. (If the car isn’t parked too darn far from the store’s door.)<br />
<br />
I’m fortunate to have close-knit brothers and sisters, and friends who go back 40-50 years. It’s good to have people in your life you can be quiet with.<br />
<br />
Near the front of my book that I hardly ever mention anymore even though it’s still in print and a darn good read, there’s a picture of me when I was about six years old. It’s black and white (duh!) and shows me proudly showing off a foot-long smallmouth bass. I found myself staring at that picture recently and trying to remember what it felt like to be that boy - to see the world through his eyes. I tried to recall that day in some form - a sight, sound or smell - and could not. I knew I was looking at me but I couldn’t re-experience what it felt like to <i>be</i> me.<br />
<br />
But there’s no denying I was a happy guy that day.<br />
<br />
And I’m a happy guy today.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-54479164747879998032011-06-24T00:44:00.000-04:002011-06-24T00:44:05.444-04:00As Threatened: More Words & Pics (#239)As most of you do not know, I recently bought a new camera and a couple of lenses. It is a VERY spiffy camera (and lenses) - the likes of which I have dreamed of owning since the 70s, when I first fell in love with photography. I'd invested in a couple of nice 35 mm SLRs (Single Lens Relex) over the years, but couldn't afford specialized lenses and still pay for the film and developing. By the mid-late 80s, with a growing family, I couldn't afford the hobby any more and reluctantly gave it up.<br />
<br />
For the last three years, the photos I've posted have been taken with inexpensive, "grabshot" cameras costing under $200. My little Sony has served me well and today I'm going to feature the last batch of photos I shot with it. No doubt most of whatever I post in the future will be shot with my new Best Toy Ever. So, here's a few of those finned, furred and feathered critters I promised last time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/MamaSquirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/MamaSquirrel.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This little squirrel was a frequent visitor to my birdfeeder this Spring. I named her "Mom" for reasons you can probably ascertain. Proof of my perspicacity arrived within a few days of taking the above pic. For the last three weeks, we've been entertained by the antics of her three progeny, cleverly dubbed "The Triplets." Mom has been teaching them how to pilfer seeds - much - and I mean VERY much to Benny's consternation. As you can imagine.<br />
<br />
Blue Jays are frequent visitors. They favour peanuts, either cracked or in the shell and this next fellow found his treat.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Jay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Jay.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Although not at all sharp, the reason I'm happy with the next shot is that it features a very infrequent visitor to my feeder, a Rose Breasted Grosbeak. This is only the second one I've seen. (And the first with camera in hand, albeit some distance away.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Grosbeak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Grosbeak.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This time it's the clumsy photographer with his big fat thumb who ruins a perfectly nice pic of a perch. (No fish was harmed in the making of this photograph.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Perch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Perch.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This next pic will have a familiar beak to some of you. It's Lucy, who longtime readers will recall is the African Grey parrot who claimed me as her own some 10 years ago. I'm happy to report that she is alive and well and as strident and bossy as ever.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Lucy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Lucy.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This next critter has taken up residence in my backyard. In case you had any doubt, a future post will prove chipmunks are the cutest animals on the planet. In the meantime, you'll have to settle for this pic as preliminary evidence.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/CheekyChipper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/CheekyChipper.jpg" /></a></div><br />
In my albeit limited experience as a birdwatcher, I've seen no more striking a couple than Mr. & Mrs. Cardinal.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/HeSheCardinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/HeSheCardinal.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My magnolia tree sports no fins, feathers or fur but for a week or so every Spring, she struts her stuff in striking fashion. (Maybe one of these days I'll learn how to remove distractions like wires from a photo.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Magnolia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Magnolia.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Bringing up the rear is a photo I call the Mantis Flower. Can you see why? <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/MantisFlower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" width="640" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/MantisFlower.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I'm appreciative of my little Sony and the memories we've made together. Hope you like them too.<br />
<br />
T'is the season to be gallivanting. Hilary and I are headed to the cottage tomorrow for a few days, so I trust you'll forgive me if my responses to comments and emails are delayed. I'm looking forward to testing out my new equipment up there for the first time. Some of the results will no doubt appear here eventually, Creator willing.<br />
<br />
Thanks for your time.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-85809077320230158842011-05-25T18:59:00.002-04:002011-06-22T16:51:42.342-04:00Some Words & Pics (#238)Along about the tail end of winter, Sons #1 & 2 went out into the field to do a little hunting. It was a cold, dreary day and you'd think most self-respecting varmints would have the sense to stay curled up in their lairs. And I guess most probably did.<br />
<br />
One didn't.<br />
<br />
Despite their low expectations, the lads wandered around the field, taking turns waving their weapon - a stick.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white blur leaped and clamped his jaws onto the stick wielded by Son #2! The battle was on!<br />
<br />
The furious fangfest lasted a full five minutes. Finally, #2's superior height advantage began to takes its toll and with a final quiver, it was over.<br />
<br />
The boys had bagged a rare Spotted Southern Canadian JRT, locally known as a Benny. (Remember, click on each pic if you'd like to see a larger version.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/BenStick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/BenStick.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
That'll likely do for the wordy part of the program. From here, I'll restrain myself to a line or two introducing each pic.<br />
<br />
Once we got the critter home he roused himself and we didn't have the heart to re-stick him. So we decided to keep him. For a day or two he pined for the fields. Or maybe it was for a squirrel. But he got over it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/BenWindowTulips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/BenWindowTulips.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
We've had far more than our share of dreary days this Spring. It's like living in Britain or Vancouver. Truth to tell, I don't mind it all that much when it comes to photography. Colour saturation is great on wet days and of course, mood is much more present than on a typical sunny day.<br />
<br />
I like the melancholy, meditative mood of this photo of my kitchen window.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/KitchenWindow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/KitchenWindow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
There's a pond near Hilary's house that dishes out wonderful photo opportunities, as the many visitors to <a href="http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/">her blog</a> will attest. This bench overlooks one end of the pond.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/RainyBench.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/RainyBench.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
This Spotted Sandpiper didn't mind the rain a bit. He was busy fishing below the dam at the other end of the pond.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/SpottedSandpiper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/SpottedSandpiper.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
You might be wondering about that saturated colour I mentioned. Here's a wee sample of what I meant.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/PrettyInPink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/PrettyInPink.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Some of the Creator's handiwork relies heavily on damp days to ease their transportation issues.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Snail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/Snail.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
There are two large, beautiful willow trees bracketing the pond. Even on a gloomy day, they're majestic. This one is the older of the two and still early on in the leafing process.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/RainyWillow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Final%20Sony%20Shots%20-%20Mostly/RainyWillow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
The next photo post will feature some of my feathered, furred and finned buddies. Stay tuned.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-70059273667462519892011-04-04T12:57:00.001-04:002011-04-05T11:32:24.410-04:00Bye-Bye Winter (#237)Red wing blackbird singing. Check. Worms on sidewalk after rain. Check. Tiny white Snow Drops in the garden nodding their thanks to the earth. Check.<br />
<br />
Whew. It really <i>is</i> Spring.<br />
<br />
Oh, every Canucklehead east of the Left Coast knows Ma Earth can still roll up her sleeves and deliver a blizzard if she has a mind. But chances are, she's tired of howling and blowing and wants to put her feet up for a spell. Hope so, anyway. This has been a long winter. They get longer as you get older, I think. (T'il one day you sluggishly realize the chill deep in your bones is permanent - and winter's come to stay.)<br />
<br />
Don't misunderstand. I'm very grateful to live in a part of the world that exhibits dramatic seasonal changes. All four are lovely and dressed in beautiful and distinctive garb. All bring delight of one kind or another. But only one seems to overstay its welcome for many of us - the one draped in white.<br />
<br />
Yet, if it wasn't for winter how much dimmer would our appreciation be of the seasons to follow? As some dude once wrote in a book that he never pimps* anymore - if you don't know lack, how can you appreciate plenty? (Yeah, I know. Hardly a new or earth-shattering concept. Luckily, philosophy is just a tiny part of the book. There's lots of pictures, cartoons and other stuff that more than makes up for it.)<br />
<br />
Just about everything you can think of is more difficult to do in winter than in any other season. Except ski down a hill or skate on a pond. Both of those are way easier.<br />
<br />
But other stuff?<br />
<br />
It starts first thing in the morning. It takes forever to get dressed in order to walk a Patiently Berserk** Ben because one has to put on 11 layers of clothing. And if one has happened to put on an understandable pound or twenty combatting winter's chill by fortifying oneself with fried perogies and sour cream, well, those last couple of layers can be a bit of a struggle. Remember Randy, the little brother in <i>A Christmas Story</i> whose Mom bundled him up on a cold winter day? He was so overstuffed that he wobbled when he walked. Couldn't see his own boots, just knew they were down there somewhere. The inevitable happened. An errant breeze caught him and he toppled over onto his back, limbs flailing uselessly, helpless as a drunken turtle.<br />
<br />
Well, let's just say I'm darn glad I kept my balance this winter. Oh, I teetered. And I tottered a time or two. I tap-danced on icy patches three or four times in an admirably athletic, if somewhat thunder-footed homage to Fred Astaire.<br />
<br />
But I did not go down. (Touch wood, praise the lord and remind me to light a candle for next year.)<br />
<br />
Now, the trick is to avoid stepping on those silly worms. Which isn't too tough because with temperatures on the modest side, I'm down to four or five layers. If I lean forward just a tad while walking, I can peek past the perogie damage and see where my shoes are going.<br />
<br />
Here's Randy The Human Sausage.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/plate-spinning-101/assets_c/2011/01/randy-snow-suit-a-christmas-story-2-1-thumb-391x596-304074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/plate-spinning-101/assets_c/2011/01/randy-snow-suit-a-christmas-story-2-1-thumb-391x596-304074.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br />
<br />
* Yet for some reason, the book sold more copies in the last six months of 2010 than in any previous six month period. Now, my folks didn't raise any fools. So, whatever I haven't been doing to not-promote my book, I'm determined to continue not doing. <br />
<br />
<br />
** Patiently Berserk Ben vibrates constantly but that's not enough to relieve his tension. So, every few seconds he also springs three feet straight up. Impatiently Berserk Ben still vibrates and still jumps, but does so in five or six different locations at once.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-42570999728726827412011-02-26T12:01:00.001-05:002011-02-26T20:01:43.393-05:00Baba & Gido Baron (#236)I didn't know my father's parents as well as my mother's. They died sooner and weren't nearly as fluent in English. In fact, I barely recall either of them saying anything in English. And unfortunately, much of my Ukrainian was lost past the age of four or five.<br />
<br />
But I knew this about them:<br />
<br />
They seemed stern, although I can't remember a harsh word from either of them. Their faces, even in repose, showed hard lines, especially Gido's (pronounced: jee-doh). They lived in the bottom part of a two-story house. They rented the top half to another family, which, somewhat to my amazement, I realize I cannot recall at all. I may have never met them.<br />
<br />
Gido was a cobbler. He repaired shoes and had several bee hives on his acre or so of property. At one time, he also had a cow but it wandered into the hives and got stung to death. So he and Baba made do with fixing shoes and selling honey. I remember being treated to hunks of sweet, sticky honeycombs fresh from the hive. And our family always had a 5 lb. tin of Gido's honey at home in the cupboard.<br />
<br />
Gido was a smart man and knew owning property was important. He saved and bought a parcel of land in south Oshawa, Ontario, a corner lot on the main street. He set up his shoe repair business there but before long, parceled out part of the land to his oldest son, my uncle Peter. Uncle Pete started a business known as Barons' Radio & Electric in the late '40s. He sold radios and appliances and had the first television in Oshawa. He traveled to Buffalo, NY to buy the parts, assembled them, and set up the tv in the front window of his store. I recall seeing a framed newspaper photo of a crowd gathered outside the store to peer through the glass at this new marvel.<br />
<br />
My father worked with his brother for a while and then, gifted by Gido with the other half of the parcel of land, extended my Uncle Pete's store, more than doubling its size and selling home furnishings from his part.<br />
<br />
We always spent Christmas Eve at Baba and Gido's. It was solemnly festive. A choir from the Ukrainian Catholic Church would come and sing carols after the meal. The priest of the church came for supper and distributed communion. (I didn't know it at the time, but my grandparents were a driving force and major contributors to the building of the church in the first place, and were thus honoured by the priest's and choir's presence every Christmas Eve.)<br />
<br />
Largely because of the priest's presence, I remember having to behave during dinner. But not necessarily before or after. Cousin John and I, and sister Theresa would gobble Baba's homemade dill pickles (still the best I've ever tasted) and honey cookies. We were usually stuffed well before dinner was served. We reasoned it was easier to behave with a full belly.<br />
<br />
Gido took ill late in 1968. I went with Dad to their house when the call came. Somehow, everybody knew he was going to die. We got there just behind the ambulance. They were strapping Gido into the gurney when I came through the front door. I remember my Aunt Monia leaning over and asking if he was afraid. I'll never forget the contemptuous shake of his white head and his whispered, defiant, "No!"<br />
<br />
He died, ironically, on Christmas Eve and was buried, if memory serves, on Boxing Day. I was asked to be a pallbearer at his funeral. I was 17. It was the first of some 20 times I was to perform that honourable duty.<br />
<br />
A few months later, Baba died. They'd been married for 55 years (give or take a couple - some relative will set me straight). We all knew Baba wouldn't last long after Gido.<br />
<br />
I have a couple of wonderful memories:<br />
<br />
1 - They said the rosary together, on their knees, every night. Naturally, they prayed in Ukrainian. They had a pet budgie named Billie. Before too long, Billie began to recite the Our Father and Hail Mary in Ukrainian, along with my grandparents. And he'd occasionally prompt them to get started if he felt they were behind schedule.<br />
<br />
2 - Before they got their indoor toilet, they had to use an outhouse about 50 yards from the main house. One of my earliest memories, I couldn't have been much more than four, was watching Baba and Gido walking together to the outhouse, hand in hand, heads tilted toward each other in conversation.<br />
<br />
If I close my eyes, I can see them still.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-61865563381337846722011-02-09T23:39:00.000-05:002011-02-09T23:39:31.736-05:00Old Friends, Wise Words & Mourning A DoveNot necessarily in that order.<br />
<br />
###<br />
A few days ago, Son #1 and I returned from erranding to find a mourning dove behaving oddly. It was sitting upon the snow at the top of my driveway and didn't move although I'd stopped the car within five feet of it. I got out of the car and approached it slowly, murmuring, wondering aloud why he wasn't moving away. When I was within a couple of feet and extended my hand, still not really knowing what I'd do if it allowed me to make contact, it flew away.<br />
<br />
My relief was somewhat short-lived as it flew a few feet away, to the cedar hedge. But instead of alighting on a branch, it landed on the ground. I wondered if there might be something wrong with one of its feet and perhaps it couldn't manage clinging to a branch.<br />
<br />
<br />
I didn't want to alarm it by chasing it all over the yard when it might just be feeling a little under the weather. There was nothing further to be done but wish it well.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yesterday, when we moved the car, we found a dead mourning dove beneath it, head down, frozen to the ground. My gut feeling was it was the same bird we saw a few days before. I felt bad as I carried him across the road and placed his body on the snowy field.<br />
<br />
### <br />
<br />
<br />
My father was a pretty smart guy. He was well educated and thoughtful. Along with helping to instill a love of fishing, I owe him for teaching me the magic of these three words: <i>You never know</i>. <br />
<br />
<br />
I recall first hearing them in response to my peppered questions as we prepared to go fishing:<br />
<br />
"How big do you think the biggest trout in the whole stream is?"<br />
<br />
<br />
A thoughtful pursing of the lips and a moment's pondering and then the words:<i> "You never know</i>." Which, in this instance, meant <i>"as big as you can possibly imagine."</i><br />
<br />
<br />
"I can't get a single bite on these worms. Do you think they'll hit a grasshopper?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>"You never know."</i> Which, in this instance had an addendum: <i>"unless you try</i>." <br />
<br />
<br />
That was the most common interpretation of the phrase. You'll never know an awful lot of things unless you try them.<br />
<br />
<br />
Not long ago, I heard Son #2 reply to a question posed by Son #1 with a shrug and a "you never know."<br />
<br />
<br />
I wonder if it gave Dad as much pleasure when he heard me say it.<br />
<br />
<br />
###<br />
<br />
<br />
Last week I invited three old friends to come over and watch the Super Bowl. Surprisingly, the logistics worked out and all three arrived. It occurred to me at some point that I'd known these guys for a long time and decided to figure out just <i>how</i> long.<br />
<br />
Disdaining the use of the calculator built into my keyboard because I don't know how to use it, I grabbed a pen and piece of paper.<br />
<br />
A couple of minutes of brow-furrowing and finger-counting later, I determined that I'd been friends with the three for a total of 138 years. Which, when you think about it, means a lot of things but mostly that those guys are getting pretty darn old.<br />
<br />
Announcing the result of my computations led to the clink of four beer bottles and a general murmur of appreciation. And then Pete farted - rather solemnly I thought. He belatedly tried to blame it on Ben who, when accused, showed his good breeding by looking guilty.<br />
<br />
I don't have a lot of friends. But once I make one, they tend to stay made.<br />
<br />
Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-12738758945677729722011-01-19T19:51:00.002-05:002011-01-19T21:39:57.729-05:00Optimism, Regarding Being Regarded & TrainingGenerally speaking, I don't like to be looked at. I've learned that if someone looks at you it means you've been noticed. If you've been noticed, anything could happen. I can't count the number of times I got noticed in school and the next thing you know, a nun was whacking me with a ruler or strap.<br />
<br />
If parents notice you, a chore is likely to be assigned. Same deal with a boss at work. Ditto during your domestic years, if your Significant Other happens to find your latest hiding spot.<br />
<br />
All-in-all, I've found it best to keep a low profile. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, several times a day, Ben looks at me. Unlike cats, dogs don't look at people for no reason. Cats will stare at you because they know it bugs some people and they hope you're one of them. They especially like to stare at people who are afraid of them. Just before they jump into their lap.<br />
<br />
It's not so with pooches. Dogs look at you for one reason and one reason only. Which I will get to momentarily. Quit tugging at my leash.<br />
<br />
Generally speaking, dogs don't like to be looked at either, but it's not because they have a deeply ingrained fear of nuns - it's that they find direct eye contact challenging. Plus, dogs are genetically incapable of any sort of fakery. They can't lie to save their lives and they know it. If you look at them, and then look at the garbage strewn around the kitchen floor, there's no way they can look you in the eye and say the cat did it. It's flat-out beyond their capabilities. Their eyes scrunch up, their belly hits the floor at the same time the ears flatten against the skull, and the agony of their guilt is so transparent that you've forgiven them while you're still yelling. It's actually a pretty clever defence mechanism.<br />
<br />
(A cat, naturally, could be picking his teeth in the middle of the chaos, have remnants of the garbage bag wrapped around his ears and still manage to convince you the dog did it.)<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
Dogs will only look at you for one reason and that reason is: they want something. Veteran dog owners know that dogs only ever want three things: out, food and walks.<br />
<br />
(Some of you smartypantses out there will be saying "that's not one reason" but I'm pretending I can't hear you.)<br />
<br />
Dogs are the poster pets of optimism. Which was going to be the main thrust of this entire post until that darn cat got me sidetracked. Because when Ben looks at me and I eventually begin to heave myself out of my chair, he is instantly ecstatic. He prances in front of me, secure in his wee doggie mind that there can only be one reason why I am in motion and that reason is, of course, to satisfy whichever of the three desires that was in the forefront of his aforementioned wee mind.<br />
<br />
He's dumbfounded when I go past the "out" door, past the empty food dish and head in the opposite direction of the front hall, where the leash is kept. But he is endlessly patient and only bounces against my leg every other step.<br />
<br />
So, I let him out/feed him/go for a walk - depending on the time of day.<br />
<br />
I've got him pretty well trained, I think.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-85321130371602374982010-12-31T17:27:00.000-05:002010-12-31T17:27:52.798-05:00Happy New YearT'is the season of giving and receiving. After wracking my brain, I can't think of many greater gifts than the trust of a child or animal. Then, of course, the trick is maintaining our worthiness of such a precious gift.<br />
<br />
And the New Year is traditionally a time of hope. Our hope, as always, rests with our young. As I approach my 60th New Year, I realize that with a greater sense of import than ever.<br />
<br />
Be good to yourself and others in 2011. (Amazingly, the latter usually accomplishes the former.)<br />
<br />
Happy New Year.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/sweet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="350" width="380" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/sweet.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Photo by <a href="http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/">Hilary</a>.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-10036169996481525122010-12-18T16:27:00.000-05:002010-12-18T16:27:49.082-05:00Wisdom, A Joke, Spirituality, Science & Christmas - Oh My! (#233)<u><b>Cherokee Wisdom</b></u><br />
<br />
An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life:<br />
<br />
“A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride and ego. The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, courage, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. <br />
<br />
“This same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too.”<br />
<br />
The grandson thought about this for a moment and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf will win?”<br />
<br />
The old man replied: “The one you feed.”<br />
<br />
<u><b>A Sherlock Holmes Joke</b></u><br />
<br />
<span class="storytext">Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson went on a camping trip. After a good meal and a bottle of wine they laid down for the night, and went to sleep. Some hours later, Holmes awoke and nudged his faithful friend.<br />
<br />
"Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see."<br />
<br />
Watson replied, "I see millions and millions of stars."<br />
<br />
"What does that tell you?"<br />
<br />
Watson pondered for a minute.<br />
<br />
"Astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, I can see that God is all-powerful and that we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, I suspect that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you?"<br />
<br />
Holmes was silent for a minute, then spoke. "It tells me that someone has stolen our tent."</span><br />
<br />
<u><b><span class="storytext">Science & Spirituality Meet</span></b></u><br />
<span class="storytext"> </span><br />
<span class="storytext"> T'is the season of fellowship and goodwill. And yet, Christmas is a notoriously difficult time for many folks, for various reasons. Over the years, many of mine have been endured rather than enjoyed. The joyous carols, the beautiful lights can seem a cruel mockery when one is feeling disconnected from it all. </span><br />
<span class="storytext"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="storytext">A few months ago, I came across a YouTube video featuring four distinguished scientists (well, three plus Bill Nye The Science Guy) marvelling at Nature and the Universe. The video is a re-mix and some viewers/listeners may be put off by the metallic-sounding voices. I hope not, though. If I'd had access to it years ago, it would have helped me with my perspective at holiday time (or any time).</span><br />
<span class="storytext"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="storytext">As it is, I watch it every once in a while and never fail to be moved and uplifted. From Symphony of Science comes <i>We Are All Connected</i>. I hope you enjoy.</span><br />
<span class="storytext"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="storytext"><br />
</span><br />
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<br />
<i>The cosmos is also within us. We're made of star stuff. </i><br />
<i>We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.</i> - Carl Sagan<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year folks. Thanks for staying connected with me these last few years.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-34178110156671672502010-11-24T20:43:00.001-05:002010-11-26T20:05:52.774-05:003rd Eye Now Operational - Advice Requested (#232)Today’s subject line is the title of a thread on an online, New Age message board that I visited recently. (For those unfamiliar - threads are topics of conversation initiated by a member of a particular message board community. Other members type replies which appear below the original post on a virtual board. The Interweb has gazillions of message boards on gazillions of topics.) <br />
<br />
My first instinct was to reply: “Well, for starters, you won’t be able to buy sunglasses off the rack any more.” <br />
<br />
But my better self prevailed and I refrained from commenting at all.<br />
<br />
Lemme back up a bit.<br />
<br />
I’ve been mostly retired for the last couple of years. Of all the pleasures retirement can bring, the one I value most is having time to pursue my interests. Some of those interests would fit under the umbrella label of “metaphysics” which might be defined as a branch of philosophy related to the natural sciences (physics, biology etc.) and also to mysticism, religion and spirituality.<br />
<br />
Most people with inquiring minds want to know why we’re here and where we might go next, if anywhere. For many (most?) those questions are answered satisfactorily by their religion or by science or some combination. Some are satisfied with the answers: “to exist” and “nowhere.” Some people don’t have inquiring minds and they try not to think about those topics at all. <br />
<br />
I’m a bit envious of all the above. I’ve never been satisfied with any religion’s answers. I’m not smart enough to understand much of what science posits. Atheism doesn’t feel right. And my first words may have been “I wonder why...?”<br />
<br />
So, throughout my life but most particularly the last couple of years, I’ve devoted a goodly chunk of time mulling and trying to forge my own path towards - well, let’s call it “understanding.” (In my Hunter S. Thompson-esque youth, I called it “plugging into the universe.” That still works too.)<br />
<br />
And although I like to think I’m forging my own path, I’m not the least bit opposed to peeking at others and borrowing a directional sign here, or a nugget of knowledge there. No sir. Much wiser folks than me have asked those questions and left a breadcrumb trail to their answers.<br />
<br />
Not so long ago, if I wanted to pursue this line of study, I would have to spend many years in a major metropolitan library and most likely have to travel the world to pick the brains of wise elders.<br />
<br />
Today, we are astoundingly fortunate to live in an age where the world’s accumulated knowledge is gradually being assembled into one giant data bank which can be accessed by anyone with the proper equipment. <br />
<br />
On the minus side, that same data bank can contain a lot of lies, half-truths, nonsense and insanity -- ofttimes at the same website. <br />
<br />
Nowhere have I found that mix more in evidence than on some message boards, particularly those focused on what’s loosely termed “New Age Spirituality.” In my admittedly-short time visiting some, I’ve been struck by quite a few observations:<br />
<br />
1 - Most members are gentle, likeable souls, tolerant and respectful of others’ belief systems.<br />
<br />
2- Women outnumber men by at least a 2-1 ratio.<br />
<br />
3- A disturbingly high percentage of the women tell stories of, or hint at, being victims of abuse.<br />
<br />
4- Too many, though still a smallish minority (thank the Creator) appear mentally ill and/or emotionally broken. <br />
<br />
5 - Predators lurk among them. A rudimentary understanding of Nature’s way explains their presence: There cannot be such an abundance of victims (prey) without attracting predators. I haven’t “made” one yet but have no doubt they lurk.<br />
<br />
6 - Self- described gurus abound. Most parrot feel-good, pseudo-psychological, self-realization pap they got from some books or daytime talk show or infomercial. Most of what they spout is harmless, if occasionally nonsensical. Most are women and don’t strike me as Psycho-Nasty-Lesbo-Butches-From-Heck. So I don’t number them among the predators. (But there’s this one white-haired guy I’m keeping an eye on....)<br />
<br />
7 - Sadly, people will grasp onto the flimsiest belief if they’re (spiritually) drowning. More sadly, they’ll cling to many different ones. Some embrace Tarot and Crystals and Spiritualism and Telepathy and Telekinesis and Voodoo and Paganism and Close Encounters With Reptilian Aliens with an addict’s fervour. Perhaps they think the more beliefs they can collect, the stronger the raft they can fashion in order to stay afloat.<br />
<br />
8- Thankfully, a very few Science-minded folks (usually men) are there to question and to suggest possible alternative explanations for all those blurry photographs purporting to be faeries. Their comments however, are largely dismissed by the rank and file.<br />
<br />
9 - People need to believe in something bigger/better/beyond themselves. That's not news but the number of folks seeking that something is huge - and growing, their numbers augmented daily by those disenchanted with "old-time" religion.<br />
<br />
In case you're wondering, the 3rd-eye person was advised by one person to use certain herbs and by another not to neglect some chakras lest she suffer a disidentification with the material world.<br />
<br />
As my ex-guru, the aforementioned Dr. Thompson, once said: "When the going gets weird - the weird turn pro."<br />
<br />
I’ll probably touch on this topic again down the road. Maybe when I've turned pro. Right now I'm just a serious amateur.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">###</div><br />
For those of you not on my email list – I have a new blog which focuses on music and features YouTube videos of groups/songs I like. If that sounds of interest, I hope you’ll visit <a href="http://frankiesjukebox.blogspot.com/">Frankie’s Jukebox.</a>Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-83389586285506941802010-11-03T15:37:00.003-04:002010-11-04T15:33:46.316-04:00Roots (#231)About 28 years ago, my maternal grandparents were asked to record some memories of their early life in Manitoba, Canada. It was for a centennial project, a book commemorating the 100th anniversary of the rural municipality of St. Clements. <br />
<br />
At the time, they were in their 70s and had lived in Ontario since the late 1940s. I was the Designated Writer of the family (cousin Clive Thompson came into his own a few years later) so Gramma (Mary) and Gigi (Peter) asked me to interview them and write their story for the book.<br />
<br />
Recently, I read a couple of blog posts by a very perceptive, intelligent and handsome man (who just happened to buy my book) named <a href="http://www.grayquillmusings.com/">Grayquill</a>. The posts featured stories about and by an uncle of his who kept a journal for much of his life. The journal entries provided a fascinating peek into what life was like in the first half of the 1900s.<br />
<br />
GQ’s posts prompted me to rummage around the house until I found my copy of the centennial book. For the first time since 1984 I reread the story I’d written on my grandparents’ behalf. Theirs, and especially their parents’ lives, were difficult in ways that seem almost incomprehensible today.<br />
<br />
A few excerpts:<br />
<br />
In 1902, my great-grandparents (Peter’s parents) John and Catherine Karandiuk arrived in East Selkirk from Starawa, Austria (now part of Ukraine) with one child, $2.50 and a dream of a better life.<br />
<br />
Within a few weeks, their child was dead, possibly of diptheria. The funeral cost $1.50 and the dream wasn’t turning out as hoped. John found work in a sawmill and bought three acres of land in East Selkirk. He and Catherine built a house of woven willow branches covered with clay. In all, they had five children, four of whom died. In 1907, my grandfather Peter was born, healthy and strong.<br />
<br />
A few years later, John and Catherine (who we came to know as “Little Baba”) moved up in the world and bought a seven-acre parcel of land which had a brick house on it. Not believing anyone could stay warm in a house made of bricks, they tore it down and built a log cabin chinked with mud. That winter, they nearly froze to death.<br />
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In 1924, at the age of 17, Peter got a job maintaining the roads that linked the various townships. He and his team of horses were paid 23 cents an hour for working on ditches and grading. That was 8 cents more than men working without horses.<br />
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In 1926 Pete married his childhood sweetheart, Mary Bozysko whose family came to East Selkirk from Ukraine two years after the Karandiuks. They moved in with Pete’s parents.<br />
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In 1929 John Karandiuk died and Pete had to look after his mother Catherine and his own growing family.<br />
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During those Depression years, everyone had to work if a family was to survive. Besides working on the roads, Pete spent the winters cutting and hauling wood for the Selkirk hospital for 50 cents a cord. He and another man would cut huge, 1,000 pound chunks of ice from the river with cross-cut saws and deliver them to the hotels and stores in East and West Selkirk. (Imagine how cold that job must have been!)<br />
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Mary worked their farm and minded their four daughters, Madeleine, Janet (my mother) Katherine and Hallie.<br />
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Pete’s mother Catherine would load railroad boxcars with cords of wood for $1.00 a day and gather scraps of grain from the cars to take home and feed the chickens.<br />
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In 1932, the Karandiuk’s were forced to sell the family dog, Jackie, to Indians across the river who wanted him to haul fish. Mary needed the $5.00 to buy winter coats for the girls. But when the Red River froze, Jackie crossed the ice and came home. The girls kept their coats.<br />
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In 1933, Catherine slipped down the stairs while carrying a coal-oil lamp. The house burned to the ground. The family was safe but lost everything except clothes on the clothesline, including their $90.00 life savings stored in their mattress. A few weeks before, Mary cried bitterly about sending out the $10.00 insurance premium because there were so many other ways the family could use the money. Thankful now, they collected $1600 and started over.<br />
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In 1936 technology, in the form of a motorized grader, arrived in the municipality. It was Pete Karandiuk’s pride and joy but it was a brutal machine to operate. Pete had to stand on a metal cover directly over the engine and burned his feet badly. But he was being paid 35 cents an hour and usually worked 18-19 hours a day. The municipality feared it would go bankrupt when he submitted a bill for one month for $90.<br />
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Between 1940-44 Pete worked at the Cordite Plant, an ammunition factory, and farmed 400 acres of rented land. In 1945-46, because of a market glut, farmers could only sell one bushel of wheat per acre. Pete had 6,000 bushels. Although the government paid the farmers for the wheat, the payments were staggered and ill-timed, making the bills mount up.<br />
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By 1947, the Karandiuks had had enough. They sold everything and moved to a farm in Ontario taking two boxcars full of 500, 90-pound bags of potatoes, three horses, two cows, three pigs and several turkeys and chickens.<br />
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Mary summed up life in those days. “It was a hard life - of bone-breaking work - but full of love and laughter and life.”<br />
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Peter, Gigi, died soon after the book came out in 1984. Mary, Gramma, couldn’t live without him and died several months later. They’d been married for 58 years.<br />
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I loved them dearly and am proud to come from such stock.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-68011079461015867952010-10-21T13:40:00.000-04:002010-10-21T13:40:57.966-04:00October Gold & Other Pics (#230)Every photographer (even a part-time amateur) loves morning and evening light. And the fading sunlight filtered through yellowing autumn leaves adds an especially rich, golden glow. Below are a few examples, most of which were taken a week or so ago at the cottage. Remember, if you wish to see a larger version of the photo, just click on it. (In fact, if you click them twice, they get even bigger. Don't try three times though. Your monitor might explode.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/GoldenDock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/GoldenDock.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The larger, comfortable fishing boats have all been trailered back to their owners' garages for winter storage. This little 14' aluminum with a 6 HP motor stays at the cottage year-round. It's about as plain a craft as can be but the October sun prettifies it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/OakLeaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/OakLeaf.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This oak leaf was tumbling gently an inch or two below the water's surface -- nudged towards shore by a soft breeze.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/GoldStump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/GoldStump.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br />
Thar's gold in that-there stump!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/GoldenSplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/GoldenSplash.jpg" width="327" /></a></div><br />
Although not well focused, I couldn't resist adding the splash of colour offered by these shore-hugging plants.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/SnailGraveyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/SnailGraveyard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Okay, "gold" is a stretch but this snails' graveyard, located near shore and under about a foot of water, is interesting. Besides, I said "& Other Pics." So there.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Ants-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Ants-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I shot this earlier in the summer. Golden ants are rare in my experience. I'm not sure I've ever seen them that colour before. Have you?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/KsNiceWally.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/KsNiceWally.jpg" width="335" /></a></div><br />
Brother Karl shows off a very nice golden-sided walleye. I'd say I caught it and let him hold it for me. But that would be a lie. And, as we all know, fishermen never lie.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Iseeyou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Iseeyou.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
That cute little raccoon washing her hands is Binky. (And yes, they really are more like hands than paws.) Binky is one of three young raccoons that my sister Theresa fostered this summer (along with a dozen or so squirrels.) Binky is the youngest and smallest of the raccoons, too young to be released into the wild this winter. The Binky & Benny Show provided a lot of hilarity this summer. They're not exactly friends. Nor are they enemies. Ben always wants what Binky is eating. Binky would rather not share. Hijinks ensue. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/FlyDryFinger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/FlyDryFinger.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This little critter landed on my right middle finger. I'm right-handed but decided to try to take a pic with my left. It was very awkward manipulating the camera with one (the wrong one) hand. But I'm pleased enough with the result. Except for the insect, it might make for a good "before" picture demonstrating the efficacy of dry skin lotion.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Bye-byesun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="346" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Bye-byesun.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
If you click the pic and have the eyes of a hawk, you just might espy a tiny black blob about 2/3rds of the way across the lake. There. Now you can say you've seen a loon. (Hilary would say I see one whenever I look in a mirror.)Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-3212116788877798552010-09-20T16:23:00.002-04:002010-09-21T14:01:55.157-04:00Dog Daze Of Summer (#229)As you folks are no doubt darn sick and tired of hearing, I’ve spent a lot of time at the cottage this summer. (And I’m going up <u><b>again</b></u> in a couple of days! Nyaa-nyaa!) <br />
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When I was a youngster, well before my folks built our current cottage, I loved spending chunks of the summer at my cousins’ cottages. Two of my aunts and uncles built adjoining cottages on a lake only 45 minutes from where we lived. I had loads of fun there, fishing, swimming (nearly drowning) and playing with my cousins. <br />
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As it was for me back then, for Sons #1 and #2 a large part of the allure of the current cottage was the chance to spend time with their cousins. Each of my five sibs has at least a couple of rug rats of their own and the age groups mesh reasonably well. Chances were, if we were sharing the cottage time with one or two other families, they’d have playmates with whom to swim, explore and get into trouble.<br />
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Now, my sons are in their 20s, as are most of their cousins. What with jobs, girlfriends, boyfriends and busier lives, they don’t get together at the cottage as often. <br />
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Fortunately, this is not the case for Benny and his cousins. He’s enjoyed spending time with, primarily, three pooches belonging to one of my brothers and two of my sisters. In the pic below, you'll see that he took up surfing this year. (As always, you can click the photo to see a larger version.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Wheretheactionis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Wheretheactionis.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
But back to those cousins.<br />
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There’s Calley, brother Karl’s dainty, pretty, King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. Looking at her, you just know she’s a girl. It’s easy to picture her as Lady, in Lady and the Tramp. Even easier than picturing Ben as a tramp.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/LadyCalley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/LadyCalley.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Wasn't lying, was I? <br />
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Calley is Ben’s size and he adores her. Well, he’d like to adore her. If she let him get with adoring range.<br />
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For Ben, adoring range occurs when his nose is from zero to one millimeter from her naughty bits. She tolerates it/him for a few seconds before doing the doggie version of slapping his hands. Fortunately, Ben’s a pretty good-natured pooch and deals well with rejection. He shrugs it off and tries again another time. Usually within a few seconds.<br />
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Luckily for Calley, sister Lisa’s dog, a big, lovely Bernese named Oona, is also at the cottage a fair bit and can share Ben’s affections.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/beautifulOona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/beautifulOona.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
That's her. Thanks to <a href="http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/">Hilary</a> for the pic. <br />
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Oona doesn’t quite know what to make of Ben. Which puts her squarely among the majority of those who’ve ever met him – four-legged or two. I think she just might regard him as a furry mosquito, one who jumps instead of flies. He’s forever leaping up to give her kisses. Every once in a while she lifts a massive paw to swat half-heartedly but I’ve yet to see her make contact. I suspect she secretly loves the attention.<br />
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But Ben has spent most of this summer bonding with Duncan, sister Theresa’s big, stolid (and solid!) sheepdog. In his last life, I’m pretty sure Duncan was a tree. His gait is ponderous. Despite being euchred several years ago, every once in a while Dunc gets frisky and will try to hump any animal or human that he thinks is presenting. In the pic below, Dunc is considering logistics while Ben is busy draining the lake.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Duncansniff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Duncansniff.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
We’ve all learned to look around warily before bending over, especially when we’re on the dock. Duncan also has a signature move that cracks us all up.<br />
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When he wants into a room, he will approach the door, lower his head until the crown is just touching it, and wait.<br />
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And wait.<br />
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Head bowed, apparently studying something on the floor, he waits. And waits.<br />
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He knows eventually some human is going to wander along and open it. All of us have had to deal with opening a bedroom or bathroom door and walking into Duncan’s face.<br />
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Ben adores Dunc. Yes, it’s true. Ben’s an equal opportunity pooch and is not afeered of showing affection to another male, jumping up to deliver kisses to Dunc’s face or sniffs to his naughty bits. <br />
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As much fun as Hilary and I have had this summer, I think Ben has trumped us. The grin doesn’t leave his face ‘til he sleeps. Which is about all he does for a couple of days after returning home - resting up for next time. Which, did I mention, is coming in a couple of days? (Neener-neener!)Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-81464994245362599732010-09-06T14:32:00.001-04:002010-09-06T14:34:50.876-04:00Hummingbird Poop - Naturally. (#228)When asked, most of us define ourselves by our occupation. At various times I've been a farm hand, garbage man, salesman, worm-picker, youth counselor, writer, clerk and manager. I'm leaving out quite a few because I don't want this thing to get too boring while we're still in the first paragraph.<br />
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Some folks define themselves by their relationships: father, mother, brother etc. I'm still a father and brother but it's not the usual answer when someone asks what you do.<br />
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"Oh, I'm a brother of five and father of two. You?"<br />
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See what I mean? Kinda awkward.<br />
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For much of the last couple years I wasn't sure how to define myself in a nice, neat, occupational manner.<br />
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Even though my book's still in print and selling reasonably well, I haven't written anything for publication in ages, so "writer" felt kind of wrong. "Retired" wasn't quite right either. <br />
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A few weeks ago, as I crept around the circumfrence of a pond trying to spot a bullfrog nearly perfectly hidden by dense weed growth, the answer occurred to me.<br />
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I'm an amateur naturalist.<br />
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(To avoid any confusion, a naturalist is one of those people who enjoys nature while still fully clothed. Unless it's really hot, when bathing attire may be called for.)<br />
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I did a little research (spelled "G-o-o-g-l-e") and found that one needn't have a science degree or even background to be a naturalist. Indeed, amateurs from Rothschild to Roosevelt have contributed greatly to the storehouse of knowledge gleaned via the study of the world around us.<br />
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All the job requires is noticing stuff. More or less. And maybe making a note or two. Suddenly, I realized why Yogi's statement about observing a lot just by watching resonated so deeply within me.<br />
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In a way, I suppose I've always been a naturalist, though I spent my first few decades specializing in fish and their habitat. Stupid me. I figured that only made me a fisherman. "Naturalist" sounds way more professional.<br />
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I've broadened my field of study now to include whatever flora and fauna happen to be in my field of view. I've quite happily spent a lot of time the last couple of years studying dragonflies, ants, tadpoles, bees, birds and other critters. I've read books, watched hundreds of hours of nature programs and visited the blogs and websites of other nature nuts. <br />
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I'm pretty darn sure my meandering and mulling isn't going to contribute much to the lore accumulated by my more distinguished peers. No matter. I ain't in it for the glory. My reward is the tiny "aha" of learning something I didn't know the day before.<br />
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For instance, while watching hummingbirds feed from our feeder at the cottage, I noticed, when the sun's angle was <i>just</i> so -- that hummingbird poop glistened like a tiny diamond. I noticed one male bird in particular who claimed our feeder for his own use and chased off any and all pretenders. He always fed from the same part of the feeder and I'd seen his tiny, glistening excretions several times.<br />
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After one such visitation, I decided to check the floorboards of the wooden deck which lay five feet (1 1/2 metres) below the feeder. I wanted to see what an accumulation of hummingbird poop looked like. Any naturalist worth his salt would be interested in something like that.<br />
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I squinted. I checked to see that I was indeed directly under the area where the hummingbird usually hovered. I took off my glasses and got on to my hands and knees. I rubbed my eyes and squinted harder.<br />
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Nuttin'. Nada. Not even a discoloration of the wood.<br />
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Obviously, hummingbirds are magical. Even their poop is so ethereal, it evaporates before it hits the ground.<br />
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Nifty.<br />
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Maybe I'll contribute some useful info to the cause after all.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19155961.post-70348081664766808862010-08-18T01:36:00.002-04:002010-08-18T01:42:56.275-04:00It's 1:01 AM andI feel semi-compelled to write something here before disappearing up to the cottage (again!) for another week.<br />
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The cottage, for those of you who may have just climbed aboard, is situated in the Land O' Lakes region of southern Ontario. It's a 3-bedroom pre-fab, sitting on concrete blocks on a couple hundred feet of shoreline on Lake Kashwakamak. In 1966 or '67, my father was told that Crown Land (belonging to the government) was being opened up on the lake and divided into lots. The land was free -- with a catch -- a catch my father was quite happy to accept.<br />
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If he didn't build a habitable dwelling within two years, he'd have to pay a penalty of $50/year until he did.<br />
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My father was proud to call himself a merchant. He built a retail home furnishings store and turned it into a profitable (until I ran it - but that's another story) business. He was a savvy businessman and knew a good deal when one presented itself. And, as a child who lived through the Great Depression of the 30's, he understood the value of a dollar.<br />
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And no way was he going to give up 50 of them if he could help it.<br />
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In 1968, for the princely sum of $5,000.00, the Baron Family cottage was erected on the south shore of Lake Kashwakamak. <br />
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Since then, my five siblings and our children have shared the premises every year from May (ice out!) until November (ice coming!). For too many years, as I struggled with a a failing business and difficult marriage, I didn't get up to the cottage at all, or for only two or three days a year. It was like being denied soul food and my spirit withered.<br />
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But that was then and this is now and guess what?<br />
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Wrong!<br />
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I'll tell you:<br />
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My toes are tanned. The last time my toes were tanned was 1971 and I had been in sunny Greece for weeks. (By the way, for Thumbelina and a couple of others who have read my website and asked: I'm quite close to writing about my time there. Stay tuned.)<br />
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They're tanned because it's been a hot summer and I've spent much of it at the cottage -- lazing aboot as only a good Canucklehead can -- drinking beer and fishing eh?<br />
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And I'm off to do more of the same in a few hours. I'll wave when I get back.<br />
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Hope you're enjoying your summer* as much as I.<br />
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Now it's 1:36 AM. Night all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Cnv0188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" src="http://i77.photobucket.com/albums/j68/fpbpics/Cnv0188.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
This is the view at sunset from the left side of our dock.<br />
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* Yeah - yeah. I know you Oddsies and Brazilians and South Africans are shivering in your oh-so-terrible-cry-me-a-river winter temps of 14C/57F. Big babies. You oughtta be ashamed.Frank Baronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07766219281485749395noreply@blogger.com22