Baron It All

Merry Everything

2011-12-24T12:36:00.000-05:00

Last 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.

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.

One photo kept nagging at me, though. I liked it. Somehow, it hinted at perhaps my favourite aspect of Christmas: a child's wonder.

Yeah, a chubby elf-like balloon and a silver deer. But it works for me.

###

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).

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.

I hope you all find a measure of peace and contentment this season and that it sustains you throughout a healthy and prosperous 2012.

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.

Crank up those speakers, do up those seatbelts, and have yourselves a very Merry Christmas!

An Evening On The Deck & Another Thing (#242)

2011-12-08T20:23:00.000-05:00

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.

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 must 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.

I sip a fortified beverage and await visitors.

As does Ben, the Jack Russell Terror.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

Full dark in a few.

The sparrows arrive in a noisy conglomeration, 25 strong. And leave in a flurry, after a quick nosh.

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.

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.

A soft tik-tik 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.

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.

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.

C’mon winter. I’m ready.

####

The Other Thing

I did something that kind of surprised me last week. I started a message board.

“What the heck is a message board, Frank?” some of you ask.

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.

Anyway, initially I thought I’d start one that was mostly of interest to writers. Because writing is a major interest of mine.

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!

Drop me a line if you have any questions or difficulties.

The board is called Writer’s Nest and you can find it here: http://bwritersnest.runboard.com/

Hope to see a few old friends, make a few new ones, and get to know some of you a lot better.

Pulling A Thoreau (#241)

2011-10-26T15:40:00.000-04:00

I’ve been preoccupied the past several months - to such an extent that I’ve hardly written a word.

“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.”

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:

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.)

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.

Haha! That was most likely a joke.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yeah, I won that round.

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.

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.

My Walden awaits. I’ll keep you posted.

On Turning 60 (#240)

2011-08-23T15:50:00.001-04:00

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.

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.

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.

Anyway, as can happen when dotage sneaks up on you, sometimes reflecting turns into remembering when...

...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.

...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 could lope the mile and a half from school to home without breathing hard.

...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 sat on a porch on a summer night with friends, playing guitar, singing songs, sipping brew, passing joints and living forever.

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.

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.

Now, I no longer need an excuse to be cranky. Age suffices. I can glower and mutter with impunity. It’s darn liberating.

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!)

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.)

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.

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 be me.

But there’s no denying I was a happy guy that day.

And I’m a happy guy today.

As Threatened: More Words & Pics (#239)

2011-06-24T00:44:00.000-04:00

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.

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.

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.

Blue Jays are frequent visitors. They favour peanuts, either cracked or in the shell and this next fellow found his treat.

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.)

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.)

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.

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.

In my albeit limited experience as a birdwatcher, I've seen no more striking a couple than Mr. & Mrs. Cardinal.

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.)

Bringing up the rear is a photo I call the Mantis Flower. Can you see why?

I'm appreciative of my little Sony and the memories we've made together. Hope you like them too.

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.

Thanks for your time.

Some Words & Pics (#238)

2011-05-25T18:59:00.002-04:00

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.

One didn't.

Despite their low expectations, the lads wandered around the field, taking turns waving their weapon - a stick.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white blur leaped and clamped his jaws onto the stick wielded by Son #2! The battle was on!

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

I like the melancholy, meditative mood of this photo of my kitchen window.

There's a pond near Hilary's house that dishes out wonderful photo opportunities, as the many visitors to her blog will attest. This bench overlooks one end of the pond.

This Spotted Sandpiper didn't mind the rain a bit. He was busy fishing below the dam at the other end of the pond.

You might be wondering about that saturated colour I mentioned. Here's a wee sample of what I meant.

Some of the Creator's handiwork relies heavily on damp days to ease their transportation issues.

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.

The next photo post will feature some of my feathered, furred and finned buddies. Stay tuned.

Bye-Bye Winter (#237)

2011-04-04T12:57:00.001-04:00

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.

Whew. It really is Spring.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

But other stuff?

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 A Christmas Story 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.

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.

But I did not go down. (Touch wood, praise the lord and remind me to light a candle for next year.)

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.

Here's Randy The Human Sausage.

* 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.

** 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.

Baba & Gido Baron (#236)

2011-02-26T12:01:00.001-05:00

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.

But I knew this about them:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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!"

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.

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.

I have a couple of wonderful memories:

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.

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.

If I close my eyes, I can see them still.

Old Friends, Wise Words & Mourning A Dove

2011-02-09T23:39:00.000-05:00

Not necessarily in that order.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

                                                                    ###

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: You never know.

I recall first hearing them in response to my peppered questions as we prepared to go fishing:

"How big do you think the biggest trout in the whole stream is?"

A thoughtful pursing of the lips and a moment's pondering and then the words: "You never know." Which, in this instance, meant "as big as you can possibly imagine."

"I can't get a single bite on these worms. Do you think they'll hit a grasshopper?"

"You never know." Which, in this instance had an addendum: "unless you try."

That was the most common interpretation of the phrase. You'll never know an awful lot of things unless you try them.

Not long ago, I heard Son #2 reply to a question posed by Son #1 with a shrug and a "you never know."

I wonder if it gave Dad as much pleasure when he heard me say it.

                                                                   ###

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 how long.

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.

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.

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.

I don't have a lot of friends. But once I make one, they tend to stay made.

Optimism, Regarding Being Regarded & Training

2011-01-19T19:51:00.002-05:00

Generally 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.

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.

All-in-all, I've found it best to keep a low profile.

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.

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.

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.

(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.)

Anyway.

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.

(Some of you smartypantses out there will be saying "that's not one reason" but I'm pretending I can't hear you.)

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.

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.

So, I let him out/feed him/go for a walk - depending on the time of day.

I've got him pretty well trained, I think.

Happy New Year

2010-12-31T17:27:00.000-05:00

T'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.

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.

Be good to yourself and others in 2011. (Amazingly, the latter usually accomplishes the former.)

Happy New Year.

Photo by Hilary.

Wisdom, A Joke, Spirituality, Science & Christmas - Oh My! (#233)

2010-12-18T16:27:00.000-05:00

Cherokee Wisdom

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life:

“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.

“This same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about this for a moment and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf will win?”

The old man replied: “The one you feed.”

A Sherlock Holmes Joke

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.

"Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see."

Watson replied, "I see millions and millions of stars."

"What does that tell you?"

Watson pondered for a minute.

"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?"

Holmes was silent for a minute, then spoke. "It tells me that someone has stolen our tent."

Science & Spirituality Meet

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.

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).

As it is, I watch it every once in a while and never fail to be moved and uplifted. From Symphony of Science comes We Are All Connected. I hope you enjoy.

The cosmos is also within us. We're made of star stuff.
We are a way for the cosmos to know itself. - Carl Sagan

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year folks. Thanks for staying connected with me these last few years.

3rd Eye Now Operational - Advice Requested (#232)

2010-11-24T20:43:00.001-05:00

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.)

My first instinct was to reply: “Well, for starters, you won’t be able to buy sunglasses off the rack any more.”

But my better self prevailed and I refrained from commenting at all.

Lemme back up a bit.

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.

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.

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...?”

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.)

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.

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.

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.

On the minus side, that same data bank can contain a lot of lies, half-truths, nonsense and insanity -- ofttimes at the same website.

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:

1 - Most members are gentle, likeable souls, tolerant and respectful of others’ belief systems.

2- Women outnumber men by at least a 2-1 ratio.

3- A disturbingly high percentage of the women tell stories of, or hint at, being victims of abuse.

4- Too many, though still a smallish minority (thank the Creator) appear mentally ill and/or emotionally broken.

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.

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....)

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.

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.

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.

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.

As my ex-guru, the aforementioned Dr. Thompson, once said: "When the going gets weird - the weird turn pro."

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.

###

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 Frankie’s Jukebox.

Roots (#231)

2010-11-03T15:37:00.003-04:00

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.

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.

Recently, I read a couple of blog posts by a very perceptive, intelligent and handsome man (who just happened to buy my book) named Grayquill. 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.

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.

A few excerpts:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In 1929 John Karandiuk died and Pete had to look after his mother Catherine and his own growing family.

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!)

Mary worked their farm and minded their four daughters, Madeleine, Janet (my mother) Katherine and Hallie.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mary summed up life in those days. “It was a hard life - of bone-breaking work - but full of love and laughter and life.”

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.

I loved them dearly and am proud to come from such stock.

October Gold & Other Pics (#230)

2010-10-21T13:40:00.000-04:00

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.)

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.

This oak leaf was tumbling gently an inch or two below the water's surface -- nudged towards shore by a soft breeze.

Thar's gold in that-there stump!

Although not well focused, I couldn't resist adding the splash of colour offered by these shore-hugging plants.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.)

Dog Daze Of Summer (#229)

2010-09-20T16:23:00.002-04:00

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 again in a couple of days! Nyaa-nyaa!)

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.

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.

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.

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.)

But back to those cousins.

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.

Wasn't lying, was I?

Calley is Ben’s size and he adores her. Well, he’d like to adore her. If she let him get with adoring range.

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.

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.

That's her. Thanks to Hilary for the pic.

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.

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.

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.

When he wants into a room, he will approach the door, lower his head until the crown is just touching it, and wait.

And wait.

Head bowed, apparently studying something on the floor, he waits. And waits.

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.

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.

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!)

Hummingbird Poop - Naturally. (#228)

2010-09-06T14:32:00.001-04:00

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.

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.

"Oh, I'm a brother of five and father of two. You?"

See what I mean? Kinda awkward.

For much of the last couple years I wasn't sure how to define myself in a nice, neat, occupational manner.

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.

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.

I'm an amateur naturalist.

(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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For instance, while watching hummingbirds feed from our feeder at the cottage, I noticed, when the sun's angle was just 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.

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.

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.

Nuttin'. Nada. Not even a discoloration of the wood.

Obviously, hummingbirds are magical. Even their poop is so ethereal, it evaporates before it hits the ground.

Nifty.

Maybe I'll contribute some useful info to the cause after all.

It's 1:01 AM and

2010-08-18T01:36:00.002-04:00

I feel semi-compelled to write something here before disappearing up to the cottage (again!) for another week.

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.

If he didn't build a habitable dwelling within two years, he'd have to pay a penalty of $50/year until he did.

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.

And no way was he going to give up 50 of them if he could help it.

In 1968, for the princely sum of $5,000.00, the Baron Family cottage was erected on the south shore of Lake Kashwakamak.

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.

But that was then and this is now and guess what?

Wrong!

I'll tell you:

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.)

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?

And I'm off to do more of the same in a few hours. I'll wave when I get back.

Hope you're enjoying your summer* as much as I.

Now it's 1:36 AM. Night all.

This is the view at sunset from the left side of our dock.

* 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.

Writerly Stuff (#226)

2010-07-30T13:24:00.000-04:00

I've been a note-jotter most of my life. Partly because I've always been what my teachers kindly called, "scattered." Partly because that's what writers do. They get ideas, usually in a non-writing venue like a crowded bus or at the ball game. So, they grab a pen and paper and jot down a note, fully intending at some future time to expound upon it in a writerly and entertaining fashion.

Naturally, this rarely happens. Especially if one is a writer of the scattered variety. We usually either forget the note entirely, or lose the paper it was written on. Often both. Which, if you're not only scattered but also kind of lazy, is a pretty good deal. Those lost bits of paper saved me from writing quite a few words over the years.

Anyway, in this newfangled day and age they have virtual sticky notes that you keep on your computer. I was pretty excited when I found out about them. Imagine - a sticky note that doesn't ever peel off the thing you stick it on! Why, a scattered person of the writerly persuasion could write all sorts of notes and never lose them! (As long as his computer doesn't fritz out, of course.)

So, for the last several months I've been jotting down ideas, figuring to turn them into columns/posts somewhere down the road. But darned if I'm not having a busy summer, with hardly two consecutive days spent at home. I haven't had time to expound, entertainingly or not.

What to do? Then, as if having accumulated five or six ideas already this summer wasn't enough, I was gifted with one more: Just do a blog/column about the bare-boned ideas! That way, the ideas themselves would be saved for posterity on the Interweb and I could expound upon them later.

Or not. We'll see.

Here are the ideas:

1- The best test of character is adversity.
2- Facebook memorials: virtual bouquets and teddy bears.
3- "Trying is the first step towards failure." - Homer Simpson
4- The path taken doesn't matter, if you arrive at the truth.
5- "Just be yourself - in a whole new way!" - Marge Simpson
6- Celery: God's revenge.

With a WHAT On His Horse? (#225)

2010-07-20T02:07:00.004-04:00

No doubt most of you sharp-eyed folks have noticed a couple of minor additions to my blog. Up there near the top is a favourite quote from noted philosopher, Yogi Berra. Even if (according to the great man himself) he never said most of the things he said, what he DID say offered plenty of grist for the meditative mill. Godbless him. And to boot, he was a damn fine baseball player -- one of the best of his era.

The second addition is another quote, this time below the header. I titled it Wish I'd Said It. As a writer, I appreciate a well-turned phrase. I like to think that over the decades, I've turned two or three myself. By accident, sure. But they all count.

The quote, for those of you who didn't notice and abhor scrolling up, is: "'Cause beauty's religion and it's christened me with wonder" from a song called And If Venice Is Sinking by a terrrific Canadian band called Spirit of the West. The lyrics were written by John Mann and the song is about his honeymoon in Venice. It's a difficult song to categorize musically but the melody is darn catchy and the lyrics...those lyrics....Did he really say "...Marini's little man, with an erection on a horse?"

Yes, yes he did.

Every once in a while, I'll probably change the quote to something else I wish I'd said. But I'll leave this one here for a while.

Here's the original video of the early 90s song.

For those of you who have hung in to the bitter end, here's a bonus track from the same band. It's a rollicking drinking tune that shows pub crawlers in Newfoundland, Dublin, Glasgow and points in-between that a group from western Canada can kick major Celtic butt.

Here's Home For A Rest.

Hope you enjoyed. (I'm off to the cottage now for a few days. Will reply to your spiffy comments when I return. Thanks for visiting.)

Hithering & Yonning (#224)

2010-07-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

Yep. That's what I've been doing. Hithering here and yonning thither. Coming home in time to find a computer that's nearly completely fritzed and has to be reformatted. Now, I'm hieing myself back to the cottage in the morning.

I haven't had time to write anything so I'm going to upload a few more pics for (I hope) your viewing pleasure. (Remember, you may click each photo if you wish to see a larger version.)

Ben's presence gives you some idea of the size of these fungi. Ben is 4 feet long and weighs 137 pounds.
(The previous sentence bears no resemblance to the truth.)

Even dead trees contribute much to the environment. This one, near Hilary's place, is a favourite of mine. Despite its gnarled and broken limbs, it emanates a sense of pride, echoes of previous grandeur.

You're going to have to take my word for this next one, folks. There is a bunny in the photo. Really. You can't see him because he's invisible. Every bunny worth its salt knows that if it remains stock still, it cannot be seen. The only reason I can assure you there is indeed a rabbit in the picture is because Nature has gifted me with Heightened Awareness. It comes naturally to fishermen who have spent several decades staring at sun-splashed water. (All the details are in my book that I never mention anymore which is still in print and called What Fish Don't Want You to Know.)

Anyway, trust me, there's a bunny in the picture below.

This mud flat along the creek is a popular spot for small birds and mammals to bathe and drink.

I like this night shot taken at the park near Hilary's. The light appears to swoop towards (away from?) the light standard, giving an appearance of ghostly, golden motion.

The jumbled pile of roots, trunks and limbs found near a bend in the creek is always photo fodder for me. From any angle, the textures and shapes are interesting studies.

For the most part, overcast, grey days provide a flat light that doesn't do much to "prettify" a scene. But I like the soft, muted, near black and white shot of a wee chickadee on a log. I watched it enter and leave the knot hole just to its left in the photo. I can only presume it was assessing it for nest-worthiness. Apparently it was found wanting because I returned several times and didn't see the bird again.

Lastly, here's photo of a small brook trout. Five seconds after I snapped the shutter, the colourful little guy was swimming away. If we hook up again in a couple of years, he may not be so lucky.

Before you go, I crave a boon. I'd like those of you who aren't regular visitors to Hilary's blog to please do so in order to read about a young woman named Mandi. Mandi is betrothed to the grandson of a friend of mine (and talented artist) Elaine Sell Prefontaine. Hilary did a great job spotlighting the tale and I'm going to piggyback on her work. Please take a few minutes and read the entry here.

Thanks, all.

Music (#223)

2010-06-21T23:20:00.000-04:00

Hiya folks.

I've been away at the family cottage for the last few days and, after a whirlwind few hours back home, I'll be returning there tomorrow.

I'm not sure when exactly, I'll be writing the next "proper" post. Summer seems to be kinda hectic these days -- but in a good way.

In the meantime, I'm going to post a couple of YouTube videos I particularly enjoy. I hope you will too.

One of my favourite musical genres of the 60s and 70s was Southern Rock -- the kind of sound popularized by the Allman Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyd, The Band and Little Feat. Probably my favourite practitioners of that kind of rock was a band called Wet Willie. It was fronted by a guy named Jimmy Hall. Jimmy's got a great set of pipes and can blow a sax the way you just know a sax likes to be blown.

(Let's get all the wet willie and great sax jokes out of the way right now, shall we?)

...Done?...A couple more? Okay...

There.

As far as I knew, the band stopped recording in the mid-late 70s. I didn't know that Jimmy, and at least some of the original band, was still playing as recently as a few years ago. Now, thanks to the wonder of the Interweb and YouTube, I do. And I was thrilled to see, that at least in 2002, they could still kick musical derriere.

In the following clip, Jimmy and the boys, aided by his sister, Dee, let rip a terrific version of one of my favourite tunes of theirs, Street Corner Serenade. That they appear to be playing in front of about 17 people doesn't seem to faze anybody, especially Jimmy.

Turn up your speakers and enjoy.

My other favourite band of the 70s was the aforementioned Little Feat. Fronted by the incomparable, and too-soon-gone, Lowell George, the band combined boogie with country and bluegrass and blues to form a wonderful sound.

One of their simplest tunes, a ballad espousing the lonely life of a trucker, became one of their few hits. Like Wet Willie, Little Feat didn't get the airplay I think they deserved. The clip I'm featuring next is a song that my friends and I used to play and sing on the porch on summer evenings -- fueled by a little weed and a little wine. It's called Willin'. The video isn't great but the sound isn't too bad.

Crank those speakers, kids. I hope you enjoy.

Father Cardinal & Others

2010-06-08T14:19:00.000-04:00

No, this is not going to be yet-another of those sordid tales of the misdeeds of men in Catholic robes. Rather, it's a story, told in photos, of dedicated parenting.

Of all the visitors to either my, or Hilary's bird feeders, none are as wary and watchful as the male cardinal. He often forgoes eating his own meal, preferring instead to stand guard nearby while his mate dines. When she's done and has flown back to the safety of nearby bushes, he may grab a few hurried nibbles before joining her.

While at Hilary's a couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of watching a Dad Cardinal introduce his fledgling daughter to the joys of the feeder. (Many of the photos aren't especially crisp because they were taken through a glass door. Click each if you wish to see a larger version.)

As usual, he first cases the joint from the nearby plum tree.

Daughter waits dutifully on a nearby branch. She's hoping for a bill-to-bill feeding. She's cute, in that endearing, gawky, pre-teen kind of a way.

Maybe Dad will get the hint if she flits over to sit near him.

Well, that didn't work. He flew down to the ground near where all that stuff is. Hmm, he seems to be eating....

Okay! Here I am Dad! Feed me, like in the good ole days, whaddaya say? Wait, where you going?

Dad's gone back upstairs to stand guard. He has faith that his little girl is as clever as she is cute. She'll figure it out.

Hey! Dad was right! This ain't so hard!

Our feeders play host to several other critters, mostly of the feathered variety. Here are a few:

Goldfinches are frequent, colourful, and welcome springtime visitors.

For some reason, when I saw this photo, I could easily imagine this grackle "Harummph-ing" self-importantly.

I was very pleased to be able to snap a photo of this infrequent guest, a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak. I hope I get another chance to get a better shot. It was a treat just to see him, though.

I usually scatter a few peanuts below the feeder each morning. Then it becomes a race between the blue jays, grackles and squirrels to see who makes off with the bounty. As often as not, it's the ever-alert jays. This fellow had no problem finding his prize among the fallen seeds and magnolia blossoms.

And we'll close this offering with an example of the disparate group one might find enjoying scattered birdseed. Clockwise from the top, we have a chipmunk, a male brown-headed cowbird, a redwing blackbird and a female cowbird.

Hope you enjoyed the show.

Stripping (#221)

2010-05-19T11:38:00.000-04:00

There’s this new television ad about Crest teeth-whitening strips. (What did you think I meant?) Maybe you’ve seen it. The thrust of the ad is that you can wear these strips and still do things. It features some pretty young women doing things. It kind of reminded me of those old tampon ads that assured women they could remain active while wearing them –- although apparently that activity was limited to running in slow motion through a field of daisies.

What the pretty girls are mostly doing in the whitening-strip ad are laughing and tilting their heads in an attractive manner. I think they’re walking in one shot and sitting at a table in another.

The voice-over extols the benefits of doing things while wearing an invisible whitening strip on your teeth. There’s a close-up of one of the pretty girls, presumably the strip-wearer, smiling a pretty smile. Her teeth gleam. There’s no sign of a whitening strip. It really MUST be invisible!

Near the end of the ad, you could tell the voice-over guy was getting excited. He was headed for a climactic statement – the clincher that would tip the balance for an uncertain viewer: While wearing them “you can even,” he exclaimed, “drink water!”

Holy Cow!

What an incredible, slap-the-forehead moment! Let’s assess what we’ve learned so far:

We have the freedom to “do things” when we use these Crest whitening strips. It appears the things we can do are, in no particular order: sit, stand, smile, walk and tilt our heads.

And we can “even” (I love that they used that word!) ingest the most benign substance on the planet!

Wow.

Now, I may not be the sharpest lure in the tackle box, but “even” I can do the math here: If you use these whitening strips and put anything in your mouth except water – your head may very well explode.

Ok, maybe not explode - but I bet something bad would happen.

Ever seen those nifty videos of folks putting Mentos mints in bottles of cola and turning them into mini volcanoes?

I wonder if something like that might happen if the strip-wearer drank some Coke instead of water? Now, if Crest ran a whitening-strip ad that featured a bunch of folks spouting mini, mouth volcanoes while en route to brighter teeth, it might tempt me to try them.

But I’m no darn good at sitting, looking pretty and sipping water. (However, one out of three ain’t bad.)

As the kids today might say (and I pride myself on being pretty darn hep to the jive) this ad is an epic fail.

Mad Marie vs Chazz Chopperboy (#220)

2010-05-12T13:50:00.002-04:00

Watching my bird feeder from the front window has provided a lot of entertainment lately. (Holy crap. There's no denying it now. I'm old.) Each day’s usual parade of visitors includes squirrels, chipmunks, mourning doves, sparrows, goldfinches, redwing blackbirds, grackles, cardinals, bluejays and chickadees. Occasionally a robin hops along, apart from the seed-seekers, in a never-ending quest for small, wriggly things.

Some of the birds seem crankier than usual, especially some of the mourning doves. Now, few of us would argue that the Creator favoured all his creatures with various gifts. For instance, chickadees are cute, brave and curious. We all know dogs are loyal and fun-loving. Crows are clever and watchful.

Morning doves, although strikingly pretty in some light, are dumb as posts.

It’s easy, when regarding those tiny heads bobbing up and down, to imagine them filled with a single, cartoon thought balloon containing the word “EAT."

I liken them to cows - placid, social, ever-grazing, regarding the world with a singular lack of curiosity.

Like their bovine brethren, mourning doves generally get along quite amicably with each other. They also tend to tolerate the presence of other ground feeders, like sparrows, grackles, juncoes and squirrels.

Usually.

Lately (as I said upstream before getting so windy) I’ve seen a few cranky mourning doves. One will suddenly decide it wants the feeding area to itself and will turn on, and chase away, another. It may have been grazing happily beside it a moment before, or it may challenge a new arrival while ignoring a couple of others.

I can’t account for it. Unless they’re males trying to act tough to impress a lady. Or maybe pregnant females having hormonal issues.

Anyway, today I was witness to a National Geographic moment: Mad Marie Mourning Dove vs Chazz "Chopperboy" Chipmunk!

Bring It On!!

A flurry of feathers drew my attention to the area below the bird feeder. This, of course, is where the seed falls from above when scattered by the sloppy eaters. (I'm looking at YOU, sparrows!) This drop zone is roughly circular and about three feet in diameter.

The flurry that caught my eye resolved itself into a sulking mourning dove, standing just outside the seed circle and staring back inside, where a muscle-flexing chipmunk was patrolling and filling his cheeks.

At one point, the chipmunk absently worked his way toward the mourning dove and turned its back.

Mistake.

The cartoon balloon word changed from “HUH?” to “ATTACK!” and the dove launched itself at the chipmunk’s rear end. I couldn’t hear the squeak through the glass but I’m pretty sure there was one, as the chipmunk leaped and skittered out of the circle.

The circle which was now proudly paced by the victorious dove. “EAT” was on display inside its head again and it pecked away, seemingly without a care in the world.

For about 20 seconds.

That’s how long it took for the chipmunk to decide it was mad as heck and not going to take it anymore and hurtled its furry little body towards the unsuspecting dove.

Once again, in an angry flutter of wings, the disgruntled dove hightailed it for the border where - uh-huh, you guessed it - it pouted until the chipmunk presented itself as a target once again.

A few minutes later, something outside startled both combatants and they scattered. I'd score the bout a draw, with about three or four successful oustings each. It was very, very funny and a treat to witness. Unfortunately, I’m not ept at using the filming feature of my camera and my attempt failed.

I'm telling you folks, if there's nothing on tv - get yourself a bird feeder.

Another Excerpt From: Walking With Benny (#219)

2010-04-28T15:26:00.000-04:00

Watched a grackle in the backyard gathering nesting material just a few moments ago. He’d hop along (you’ll understand how I came to be certain of his gender in a moment) gathering bits of dried stalks of grass or weeds. When he had two or three bits in his beak, he’d open it again to gather more and drop the ones he had - thereby having to start over. I watched him do this several times.

Now you know how I knew.

It was easy to picture Mrs. Grackle tapping her foot and pointing to her watch when he finally appeared at the nest-to-be with something to contribute.

At the same time, about 10' from the grackle and deeper into the shade of the SW corner of the yard, I watched a cowbird engaged in what I first thought was the same behaviour as the grackle. It was walking slowly but purposefully, pecking over here and then over there. After a handful of pecks with no visible result, I figured he was looking for food, not nesting material.

And now, as I write this a few minutes later, I recall that cowbirds always lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. Duh. They’re never concerned about finding nesting material.

Animal behaviour is fascinating.

###

Spawning is just about done. The trout population is sparse now, and scattered. But the warm, dry spell has lowered and cleared the water, so the ones which remain are easier to spot.

Some people, even with sunglasses, sometimes seem totally unable to see these torpedo-shaped shadows. Unless I’m fishing, I never wear sunglasses while walking, and still, I have no problems spotting fish. I suppose decades of squinting at water gives me something of an edge.

Bumped into, and chatted with a couple of folks along the way this morning. Both expressed disappointment at missing the peak of the trout run when the fish were jumping at the dam. One woman in particular, said she hadn’t seen a “single fish” in the last 10 days.

As we spoke, without even turning my head much, I could see a pair of rainbow trout tucked behind a boulder not 20 feet away. Along this particular half-kilometre stretch of creek, I could probably see two to eight fish every hundred metres, if I was looking for them. Two weeks ago was three times that number, last week, twice.

She hadn’t seen a single one.

I think there’s a lot of folks like her. Folks who can't seem to see, even when they’re purportedly looking.

First of all, most of them aren’t really looking at all. If not actually accompanied by someone and chatting, or strolling with their iPod cranked up, they’re busy inside their heads thinking clamorous thoughts about work or the children or finances or sex or medical problems.

Their inner noise and busyness, in effect, deadens their senses. They see well enough not to bump into trees but they don’t see the squirrels or birds among the branches. They see the water splashing over the rocks but they don’t hear the music of the creek.

And at least some of them aren’t seeing fish that are finning in plain sight.

This n' That n' Trout - Mostly Photos (#218)

2010-04-07T14:11:00.003-04:00

I've collected something of a mishmash of photos over the last few months which I'd like to ~~inflict~~ share with you good folks. As a bonus, I'm offering a video of leaping rainbow trout! All for the incredibly low (albeit regular) price of free!

The photo below will probably become my new header picture. It's taken from virtually the same place, but in winter rather than fall. Maybe I should put it to a vote. Keep the old one or replace it with this one? (Or maybe I should have just switched to see if anyone would notice?)

Remember, if you wish, you can click each photo to see a larger version.

Last fall, in the middle of the annual salmon run, I took the following pic. You can see the shadows of the big fish in the creek behind an oblivious Benny.

The trio of ducks below, appeared to me to be lost in thought. Perhaps in the same one: "Who's that lumbering dude pointing that thing at us?

This next one goes back to last New Year's Eve. It's a snapshot of part of the table at hosts' Debbie and Mario's place. I swear by my Big Baba's apron that the view changed every three minutes as more (and more and more) food and drinks appeared and disappeared. But every view was just as festive and colourful as the one below.

A few weeks later, Hilary decided to buy a bouquet of flowers to beat back the winter gloom. They made a striking display on her dining room table. (She just up and bought them. Honest. I'm pretty sure I didn't miss a hint....)

Here's a closer look at one of the blooms on the other side of the bouquet.

I wish I could have gotten a better pic of the next subject. He was a rare visitor to the little pond near my home which hosts a large flock of mallards. He's a Northern Pintail duck. What's particularly striking about them is the configuration of their feathers (which of course, explains their name).

At Hilary's last weekend, I borrowed her camera to take a few pics of birds at her feeder. Shooting through the patio door glass obviously flattens out the picture - but the subtle iridescence of the grackle's colouring still comes through.

For several weeks, birds were avoiding both my and Hilary's feeders. I eventually became convinced we had an unappealing batch of seed. Changing the seed helped coax the birds back. But undoubtedly, the presence of the little fellow in my next photograph deterred the locals as well. The merlin perched nonchalantly in my magnolia tree, about 10 feet from the bird feeder, undoubtedly awaiting the arrival of his own feathered lunch. After admiring him a while and taking the shot (again, unfortunately, through glass) - I went outside and shooed him away.

Well, it seems I still have a few pics but this post has gone on long enough. I'll save them for another time. As ~~threatened~~ promised, the video below was taken about a week ago, a few minutes' walk from my house. The rainbow trout (steelhead) were anxious to get upstream to get some serious, fin-to-fin canoodling done. Part-way through the video, if your sounds are on, you'll hear an excited little boy announce each airborne fish he spots.

Enjoy.

It’s So Sleazy Being Green* (Sometimes) #217

2010-03-22T15:52:00.000-04:00

Ladies. Gentlemen. Please permit me a little preambulation before I mount the pulpit and invite the wrath of the gods to smite those who have offended me.

Preamble One:

Here are some things that really bug me: bullying, lying and hypocrisy. They’ve always bugged me and always will. They aren’t the only things, of course. There’s Joan Rivers. And her face. And don’t get me started on mosquitoes or voice mail. But bullies, liars and hypocrites can always make the bell ring atop my Pissoff-O-Meter.

Preamble Part Deux:

This may come as shock to some of my American readers but despite being a Canadian, I am not a communist. Or even much of a socialist. I believe in capitalism. Businesses should make a profit.

Preamble The Last & Intro To The Main Event - Enviroman vs Greedzilla:

I’m fairly environmentally conscious. As a lifelong angler, I probably appreciate pristine, natural environments more than most. Many of my early newspaper columns in the 70s were devoted to raising awareness of the effects of acid rain and other habitat issues. I believe in recycling and have switched nearly all my light bulbs to those weird curly jobbies.

But I’m not an eco-nut, or eco-nazi or whatever term is being used these days to describe/denigrate those who are exceptionally environmentally conscious. I still buy and use paper plates occasionally. At least once every week or two, I lazily toss a tin can into the nearest garbage instead of walking a few more steps to the recycling bin.

And all of my bills are mailed to my home. They are printed on paper and mailed in paper envelopes.

Many companies are upset with me about that.

Why-oh-why do I hate trees? Do I not understand how many could be saved if I simply switched to online billing and/or automatic withdrawal?

Yes, actually, I do. Well, not precisely how many, but I imagine that over the course of time it would be quite a few trees. Gobs of them in fact, if everybody switched.

And I’m a huge fan of trees. On top of the wonderful things they add to the planet and to our lives, I believe they possess spirit. I respect and admire them greatly.

But I don’t for one minute think that the phone, cable, gas, electric, and all those other companies are losing sleep over the amount of trees they’re killing because of my stubborn refusal to switch to a paperless system.

Nope. Nuh-uh.

It’s not a lofty environmental conscience that has them spend money on monthly (paper!) inserts and expensive advertisements, pleading with us darn tree-haters to change our evil, selfish ways.

No, the truth is, they want to save money. They could save bundles of cash if they didn’t have to print, stuff and pay postage to mail those bills. They wouldn’t just be saving big bucks on supplies. Nosiree. Think of all the employees that would be made redundant! They could trim a substantial part of the payroll if they get me, and all those other stubborn old farts, on board.

Think of what they could do with all that newfound money! Why, they could reduce our bills! Or donate the savings to a worthy environmental cause! Or they could take that money and pay for retraining those laid-off employees! They could even, godbless’em, do all three!

Or maybe they could just filter it to their shareholders and toss the execs a few extra million in bonuses.

Which scenario do you see happening?

Me too. And it ticks me off.

I wish just one of them would admit that yeah, the saving-trees thing is cool but it’s the improved bottom line that really counts.

But none of them will. They’re hypocritical liars trying to bully us into being green in order to cut costs, eliminate salaries and pad their bank accounts.

I intend to help envelope stuffers and postal workers keep their jobs as long as I can. So, keep those bills and statements coming.

But I do believe I’ll plant a tree this year.

*Apologies to Joe Raposo and Kermit.

Winter Wrap-Up (#216)

2010-03-08T12:53:00.002-05:00

There we were just a few short days ago, waddling around in our swathes of woolies when presto! March arrives, and I'm opening windows to catch the first of the warm spring breezes. In like a lamb, indeed.

(This is me not complaining. In a day or three, there should be open water and I just might wet a line.)

But there were a few, short, winter-related notes I'd jotted down over the last couple of months - fully intending to flesh out each into a witty, humourous and incisive post. Sometime this winter. When I got around to it.

You know folks, over the years I've developed a very high regard for your intelligence and creativity. As a result, I have complete faith you'll have no problem imagining each of these notes to be longer, wittier, funnier and more incisive than they appear.

MUCOUS - WORD OF THE WINTER?

Well it, and its brother word "phlegm," were usually heard several times in voice-over during cold-remedy commercials. No more delicate tippy-toeing about "runny nose" or "congestion." Nosir. Not this winter. We watch and listen and stifle our gag reflex as Mary, and then Larry, hack out a lung, or at least try to hork up a loogie. The sombre announcer intones the horrors of Mucous and Phlegm. Like all good voice-over announcers, he manages to verbally capitalize the letters that matter: Mucous. Phlegm.

I'm concerned about the next generation of ads for diarrhea cures.

WHY I HATE CRAZY GLUE

I hate crazy glue because every time I've used it, I've bonded my fingers to each other. In seconds.

BEST NEWS EVER!

Found a brand of honey-glazed donuts that contain zero trans fats!!

THE OLYMPICS

Pretty good, eh? Despite failing to erect for the fourth time there, in the Opening Ceremonies. Still, at our age, three's not bad at all. Good job by those Yankee kids, winning all those medals. But good job by our kids too, what with winning the most golds of any winter Games. Including, of course, the only one that mattered:

Mens' hockey gold.

Yessssssssssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!

Eat it, you Americans with your best-goalie-in-the-NHL!! Ha! We weren't even nervous there when you tied it with 24-frickin' seconds left in the frickin' 3rd period!! And no, that wasn't barfing that was going on during the intermission! We were just making room for more pre-victory brewskies.

We're Hockey's Hosers!!

THE OSCARS

Can you say "boring" boys and girls?

I knew you could.

Both Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin were under-utilized. They weren't given a chance to make an impression, let alone shine. And, unless it happened while I was searching for another toothpick to hold up my eyelids, no starlet almost fell out of her dress.

I was pleased for Jeff Bridges, though. The Dude abides.

SAD NEWS ABOUT WEIGHT GAIN

Apparently, "trans fats free" all of a sudden doesn't mean "zero calories." Sheesh. Don't you think it's about time we toughened up our truth-in-advertising laws? I mean, any reasonable person might ask - if an edible item contained no fat, where would the calories hide? Calories adore fat. Everybody knows that. And trans fats are the worst. Everybody (especially Hilary) says so. Over and over. Ergo, ipso facto and other appropriate Latin abbreviations, we need to change the way people think of food. Or stop labeling ingredients. I'm not sure which. I wish this item was more incisive. I'm feeling a little bit anxious right now and would like to have a donut.

Ice, Pain & Death (#215)

2010-02-18T12:13:00.003-05:00

Every year for the last four, a mid-winter thaw accompanied by heavy rainfall has resulted in flooding in the creek across from my house. Winter floods aren't just about too much water. They're about too much water surging under the frozen surface, heaving up chunks of ice ranging in size from a football to a truck, and sending them hurtling downstream.

The mass of broken ice respects no boundaries. It overflows the banks and surges across and through groves of trees. It flattens saplings, removes topsoil, wounds, and even kills century-old trees.

It's a stark and savagely beautiful reminder of nature's power, as the photos below illustrate. Remember to click each picture if you wish to see a larger version.

It starts innocently enough, mild and misty.

A few hours later, a 2nd creek appears, roughly paralleling the first, flooding the paved path and littering the area with scattered ice.

A couple of days later, the water recedes. The ice will remain for weeks in the field and months in the woods. Let's take a look upstream.

The path is blocked here but still navigable, if one is careful. (I've only fallen three times.)

Farther along, it becomes impassable for all but billy goats and young teens. This mass below is the size of two football fields. I have to take a wide detour around it.

The destruction is not without beauty.

In the background of the above photo you can make out a felled cedar. It breaks my heart to see these magnificent old warriors toppled.

Some receive wounds from which they'll recover. But the scars will last forever.

Trees aren't the only living things imperiled by the flooding. Fish unable to withstand the rushing water are lifted up and deposited far from the creek's normal course. When the water recedes, they die. In the photo below, a 10-lb. rainbow trout lies on the ground, a full 200 yards from the creek.

If you're at all squeamish, avoid the next photo. It's a closer look at the trout. You can see where a bird, probably a crow or gull had a meal. Interestingly, the next day, the trout was gone. Something big enough to carry off a fairly large fish had done so. I couldn't spot any drag marks nearby, nor were there any bones or other remnants indicative of a meal on the spot. My guess is a coyote or perhaps a pair of raccoons working as a team carried off the prize.

Well, let's not end this one on a gloomy, unattractive note. On a crisp, clear winter morning, it's easy to find beauty in the aftermath. (Most of those tracks were made by a muskrat.)

Can YOU Hear Yourself Think? (#214)

2010-01-25T13:58:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid - the eldest of six - the words “Be quiet!” were often followed by, “I can’t hear myself think!”

Things were too loud. There were too many distractions. The person (not unsurprisingly, usually a parent) needed some peace and quiet in order to gather themselves, to clarify their thoughts.

What do you see people doing now, on and off our town’s and city’s streets?

I’ll tell you.

You see them walking while listening to their iPods. You see them driving with their radios cranked up to deafening levels. You see them wearing a headset and mashing buttons on a controller while riveted to a computer or tv screen. You see them shopping - loudly - with a cell phone stapled to their ear. You see them laughing at Seinfeld reruns while waiting for the prime time shows and then you see them fall asleep to Letterman before waking up with Regis.

I think a lot of people today are uncomfortable with, indeed are afraid of, silence. They don’t like stopping the input of sensory data. To be alone with themselves.

To hear themselves think.

“But Frank,” I hear you holler (because your earbuds are in and you’re talking louder than necessary) “I use my iPod as a focusing tool - to drown out other distractions!”

So we, clever beings that we are, bombard ourselves with chosen noise to drown out the other noise around us.

But it’s still noise. And it’s still preventing us from hearing ourselves think.

We in the developed nations are super-stimulated. We’re the ADD generation, constantly immersing ourselves in neuron-pinging media. We’re not sleeping well and we’re overweight. Our mental health is suffering, so we fix it with sleeping pills and Prozac, or self-medicate with booze and/or other, less legal substances.

I believe a goodly portion of what ails us can be traced to not hearing ourselves think. Like an overstimulated 2-year-old, we need quiet time. Regularly.

In my book I talked about how we’re becoming alienated from nature, how concrete and steel are shielding us from fields, trees, water and animals.

You don’t have to look far for evidence that we are also alienating ourselves from each other: Young people shoot other young people for ridiculous reasons. Fender-benders lead to mayhem. Conscienceless predators bilk the elderly out of life savings. Politicians serve their donors, not their voters.

So, let’s recap: We’re alienated from nature. We’re alienated from each other. And most of us only have a nodding acquaintance with ourselves.

All those ills are related. Tending the latter can be the first step in mending them all. Do yourself a favour. Whether it’s 15 minutes in a quiet part of the house, a peaceful lunch in a park or a hike in the woods, make time for some silence - regularly.

Give yourself the same respect you allot to those folks on the other end of your phone, or radio or tv screen: listen to yourself. You may be surprised at what you learn.

Woody & Other Pics (#213)

2010-01-07T16:17:00.003-05:00

There's a wood duck that hangs around a large pond (generously referred to by the locals as a "lake") near Hilary's place. We first noticed him last year. Normally, the pond is wall-to-wall mallards, so this little drake really stood out. Before too long, we noticed him keeping company with a female mallard. Not too surprising really. You’ll see what a handsome fellow he is in a minute.

Well, Woody quickly became a magnet for every wildlife photographer near and far. Hilary got some fine shots of him. I’m sure others did too.

Me, not so much.

Let me back up a tad here (although I mentioned this not too-too long ago).

There was a time, in the long-ago and far-away, when I fancied myself a decent photographer. I owned a couple of good cameras. I bought and digested hundreds of photography magazines and knew my way around a darkroom. I even came to understand, and manipulate, arcane concepts like depth of field! But I drifted away from it for nearly 20 years when the hobby became just too expensive.

Flash forward a couple of decades.

I bought Hilary a pretty good camera because I knew she had a gifted eye and encouraged her to start a blog. (Anyone who’s visited The Smitten Image knows how spectacularly that turned out.) Largely through her lens, my dormant photographer gene was reawakened and hallelujah! - digital photography was more affordable than its predecessors!

I haven’t yet treated myself to a digital SLR but, as mentioned a few weeks ago, I did buy a nice little grab-shot camera that fits into a pocket. And, if I do say so myself (and I just did if you’re scoring at home) I got a few decent shots from it.

On three different occasions, I had opportunities to shoot pics of Woody. Out of about 30-some snaps, two are keepers. That little rascal has a way of ducking (sorry) my focus.

Anyway, after that windy intro, here’s a couple of pics of Woody, as well as a few others taken semi-recently.

Here's the handsome devil in all his iridescent glory (Remember to click the photo if you'd like to see it enlarged):

I like this next one because I think it captures his cocky personality.

Remaining with our duck theme for a bit, here's a good looking mallard venturing onto the snow for a nibble.

There's a wonderful, dead tree near the aforementioned pond at Hilary's. It's often a gathering spot for the local birds. At night, we can add "mysterious" and "ghostly" to its description.

Here's a pic idea I shamelessly stole from Hilary. We were in a restaurant and she took a shot of this fixture. I really liked how it looked so I hauled out my camera and took one too.

A couple of weeks ago, on an evening walk with Ben, I was saddened to see a rainbow trout in great distress. Most likely, an angler hooked him in a vulnerable area and released him anyway, hoping he'd recover. It was a middling-sized male, about five pounds, and he was being ushered downstream by the current. He was on his side and every few seconds would feebly try to right himself. He was unable to do so, even when he managed to thrash his way into a gentle eddy. The light was fading and he was some distance away but I took a couple of pics anyway. I walked along the bank parallel to him, encouraging him to find the strength to recover. I lost sight of him as he tumbled downstream in the dark.

On a more cheerful note, here's a shot of one of Hilary's neighbour's Christmas lights.

And we'll close this session with an "aww" shot of Hilary holding her newest neighbour, baby Lily.

Twit Of The Year - And More! (#212)

2009-12-29T15:35:00.000-05:00

Well folks, we’re not just peeking over our shoulder at a year slipping into the past but a whole darn decade.

Dang. You know you’re getting old when decades whisk by like seasons used to.

It’s been a remarkable one for a host of reasons, led by two numbers which came to represent a new, world-wide reality: 9/11.

~ The election of a mixed-race man to the office of President of the United States was certainly a notable event. (More’s the pity.) Surely, it will hasten the day when race, gender and sexual orientation play no part in deciding who is fit to lead a nation.

~ It was a decade in which global terrorism both helped and hindered the spread of tolerance. It subjected many innocent Muslims and people of Mid-Eastern descent to uncomfortable scrutiny and even outright bigotry. At the same time, identifying a small minority of fanatics who pose a real danger to the world helped put into a more realistic perspective the “threat” posed by such horrors as gay marriage and female clergy.

~ Personally, my path took many turns. It was a tumultuous time, featuring the death of my wife, the closing of my business, my Stupid Heart Attack, the publication of my book and the arrival in my life of Hilary and Benny. (There were other high and low-lights but I’ll leave their recounting to my Boswell.)

~ There were many falls from grace. Tiger Woods’ belly flop probably came from the loftiest height. It’ll take a goodly chunk of Tiger’s money to try to knit together the tatters of his reputation. Serves him right. He was a twit.

~ But I have to award the Twit of the Year to Michael Vick. (Background for those unfamiliar with him: He was a multi-million dollar quarterback in the NFL who served 18 months in prison for running a dog fighting ring. His treatment of the dogs was horrifying, killing those who lost by drowning or electrocuting them. After serving his time, he was allowed back into the NFL and is poised to re-make millions of dollars.)

Vick is not my choice because he’s an asswipe who tortured dogs. He’s my choice because, upon receiving an award from his teammates, he had the gall to say: “I've overcome a lot, more than probably one single individual can handle or bear.”

He doesn’t get it.

18 months in prison plus a million-dollar contract (and an option for $5.2 million next year) does not add up to overcoming more than a single individual can bear!

I think he needs to talk to parents who’ve buried children or children whose Daddy isn’t coming home from Afghanistan or maimed soldiers who left body parts on foreign soil.

But I suspect even then he wouldn’t get it. Which is what makes Michael Vick a major league twit.

~ What’s in store for 2010 and beyond? I dunno but I’m sure it will be interesting. My hope is that we remain, or get healthy, and find fulfillment in what we do and who we are.

I’ll leave you with a YouTube video of my favourite song of the year. This clip is a live version from the Letterman show. On my computer, it's very slightly out of sync but that doesn't detract from the performance too much. Hope you enjoy.

Happy New Year!

Thank You (#211)

2009-12-22T16:02:00.000-05:00

Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence

-Alanis Morissette

I suppose we’re a tad past the traditional season of thanksgiving but I’m feeling it this Christmas. Got to thinking about all the people, places and things that enriched my life over the years. And I don’t mean the obvious ones. This isn’t going to be about my loved ones, friends and family. I always hold them dear and trust they know so.

No, I’m talking about a few of those souls who have no idea they’ve brightened my days and lightened my load.

- Folks like Jerry Howarth, who calls the Toronto Blue Jays baseball games on radio and does a fine job. Jerry paints a verbal picture without unnecessary embellishment - letting the sounds of rawhide and wood and leather-lunged umpires tell half the story. His new side-kick, ex-catcher Alan Ashby, knows the inside game well, and is a fine communicator in his own right. There’s way worse ways to while away a fine, summer afternoon than listening to Jerry and Alan call a ball game.

- I wish I could thank every person who’s bought my book. They number in the many thousands now and have kept it in print for going-on six years. It’s quite remarkable really, because I’m a publisher’s PR nightmare. I refused to do book signings or radio or tv or print interviews. I sure appreciate every reader, most especially those who contacted me afterwards.

- I’m grateful to Mother Nature. I’m writing this on winter solstice night, the longest darkness of the year on my part of the planet. I anticipate the coming, gradually-lengthening days. Without darkness, we’d never appreciate light. MN has innumerable goodies in her basket that deserve gratitude. To list them all would take much more than a blog post. But here’s a handful: storms, rainbows, dragonflies, sunsets, trout, trees and dogs.

- Many actors have moved me with their performances and I could rhapsodize about a couple of dozen. But today I’ll focus on one: Susan Sarandon. I fell a little bit in love with her in 1970's Joe. And a little more in 1975's Rocky Horror Picture Show. I realized it wasn’t just a passing fancy with 1980's Atlantic City and 1988's Bull Durham. As the years passed, and we continued to never meet, I gradually came to understand that there would be no little Barondon babies. So, I gallantly stepped aside and gave that Tim Robbins guy a clear playing field. Ms Sarandon should be declared a cinematic treasure. I can’t think of another actress today with a comparable body of work (that’s not what I mean!) encompassing 40 years. She elevates whatever movie she’s in and is still undeniably sexy in her 60s.

- As with actors, there are dozens, nay, hundreds of musicians and other artists who have spiffed up my life. One who gets little air time on this side of the pond is Britain’s Chris Rea, one of the finest slide guitarists these ears have ever heard. For over 30 years, he’s been playing blues, rock and a little jazz. A few years ago, he was dangerously ill and survived a tricky operation. He promised that if he lived, he’d devote himself to the music he loved best - the blues. The blues are my favourite genre, so I’m doubly happy he’s well again.

- I’m grateful for the everyday pleasantries exchanged with store clerks, cashiers, gas station attendants and the three Karens who work at my bank. For quite a few years, if not for them, I might have gone weeks without an adult conversation.

- Lastly but not leastly, I’m deeply appreciative of you folks for reading my emailed, and now blogged, scribblings. Over the six-plus years, I’ve been made to feel like a member of many families.

Thank you.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Here's a little taste of Chris Rea's music. Gaunt and haggard-looking from his illness, he shows he's still got the right stuff:

Root, Trunk & Limbs (#209)

2009-12-09T12:27:00.000-05:00

Some of you know I spent a goodly portion of my life working in a retail furniture store. One of my favourite aspects of the job was dealing with wood. I loved unpacking a new shipment of oak, ash, maple, cherry, mahogany or birch coffee tables, dining tables or bedroom suites. I love the smell of raw wood and the look and touch of smooth, shiny finished pieces.

I believe trees can be cut but wood never really dies. Like true love. Like us.

What follows are some pictures I've taken over the last couple of months of wood in various forms. (If you wish to see them larger, click on them once. Some will expand even more if you click a second time. To return to the post, click your "back" button.)

Stumps and roots are like fire, in that one can stare at them and see...things....

Other...things...might be seen in tree trunks.

The true majesty of trees can only be appreciated by looking up.

This upright, elongated stump with its amputated limbs still harbours life. It provides support for surrounding bushes and plants as well as food for insects, which in turn keep birds and other critters nourished.

Roots, rocks and water. Three enduring symbols of Canada's north.

A single flower keeps an old fence post company.

This is one of my favourite shots. I like how the moving water at the shoreline has taken on a metallic sheen. And I never cease to be amazed at the lengths (and bends!) some trees, especially cedars, will take in the course of seeking light.

Shoreline sentinels observe a serene, yet gloomy scene.

The end of a evening's walk at the park near Hilary's place. If you're very, very quiet, you might hear trees whisper to each other after dark.

Autumn's Golden Light

2009-12-02T21:29:00.001-05:00

I got a new camera a couple of months ago. I wanted something small that would offer a better zoom feature than my old digital. I found one at The Source (which, in the States is still called Radio Shack, I think).

It's a Sony, like my old one, but offered many, many more features - even though it was last year's model. Because of that latter fact, it was on sale for less than $200. (If you're in the market, you might still find one. It's the Cybershot DSC-H10. It has 8.1 megapixels, a nice wide-angle lens, 10X optical zoom, a macro feature, makes HD videos and fits in a pocket.)

Anyhow, as most of you well know, I'm a techno dweeb and avoided uploading pictures from the new camera because then I'd be forced to deal with new software. Probably.

I finally bit the bullet and have spent the better part of the last three days sorting through almost 600 photos. Probably about 10% are worth sharing. (And I did indeed have to wrassle with new software.)

Don't panic! I'm not going to inflict 60-some pics on you in one swell foop. Nosirree Bob. I'll divide them up into bite-sized posts.

Here in southern Ontario we've enjoyed the first November in over 100 years without snow. But the days grow inevitably grayer and colder.

Here's a fond, pictorial farewell to autumn's golden light. (Click on each if you'd like to see them bigger.)

Some of you may recall my column/post about the Commemorative Forest. Well, that's it there on the right. The forest is now about 12 trees strong. Ish. Nice light across the creek though eh?

The wild rose's red hips are brighter than its blossoms were.

October morning light on the northern path.

The squirrels have been extremely active for the last two months, storing and stashing food for the winter. This grey has made good use of the peanuts I leave in his neck of the woods.

I posted a similar photo of the cottage outhouse a year or two ago. I'm pretending I've had requests to see another.

Fall's golden evening light lends beauty to a homely milkweed's seed pod.

It's not hard to imagine the plant enjoying the rays of the setting sun. Ben, ever vigilant, is much too absorbed to notice. The yard MUST remain free of squirrels.

It's this tree, and its immediate environs in our backyard, that Ben watches so keenly. For a time, even mourning doves, like the one roosting here in an upper branch, were sworn enemies. Now, he pretty much specializes in squirrels. By the way, those pie plates? They are yours truly's Anti-Squirrel Devices, designed to keep the bird feeder free of their thievery.

They worked for about an hour and a half.

I flat-out love cedar trees. There. I said it. I've outed myself.

More pics to come in a few days.

Releasing My Inner Artist (#208)

2009-11-11T12:22:00.001-05:00

Since I was born without a jot of it, I have a deep admiration for anyone with artistic ability. I’m not being falsely modest. My stick men were, and probably still are, unrecognizable blobs. If fridge magnets had been invented in the 50s, my parents would have been mortified at the prospect of having to display my drawings. Early on in life, I sadly accepted the fact that words would be the only medium open to me for self-expression.

I guess in a way, you folks can blame my artistic inability for the fact you’re reading this.

Sorry.

Anyway... I love art and admire artists. Over the last few years, I’ve begun collecting pieces of various descriptions. Most of them have been purchased at yard sales or flea markets. A handful have come from galleries or directly from the artist. They have very little in common with each other except that many depict animals and each of them spoke to me on some level. Surrounding myself with these carvings and sculptures and paintings and photographs reawakened my long-dampened dream to become an artist myself.

Many years ago, I was tremendously impressed when I read about a sculptor who was asked how he fashioned such lifelike, detailed figures from rock and wood. He said something along the lines of: “If I’m carving a horse, I just remove the pieces of wood or stone that aren’t a horse.”

Simple, eh?

Understand, that at 58 I hold few illusions about myself, my abilities, or lack of same. I didn’t buy paints or modeling clay. Been there - totally sucked - you wouldn’t have wanted the t-shirt.

Nope. I bought myself a fine, three-bladed pocket knife.

This is what it looks like:

Yes, me and that beauty are going to carve ourselves some wood. Now, I’m not fool enough to set my artistic bar overly high. I’m not going to carve a wood nymph being ravished by satyr, much as I might like to contemplate the project. Not right from the get-go, at least. I’ll need a bit of practice.

This is me sitting on the back porch steps with my first piece of raw material - a piece of wood:

Taking a leaf from the aforementioned artist’s book, I decide that what I will do is remove all the bits of wood which are NOT part of what I wish to carve.

After mulling creatively for a moment, I decided to turn this piece of wood into a stick. So, here’s me hard at work reshaping the wood into my artistic vision.

A minute later - told you it was a really good knife - voila! The finished product! A fine-looking stick.

Quite frankly, it wasn’t as difficult as it looks from the pictures.

I guess I’m epter than I thought as an artist. I just struggled for decades to find the right medium.

I’m mulling my next project now. It’s a three-inch long piece of wood about as big around as a pencil. Without hardly squinting at all, I’m pretty sure I see a toothpick in there, wanting to come out.

(All photos courtesy of Son #1)

The Renovator, The Ditherer & The Decider (#207)

2009-11-02T11:50:00.003-05:00

There I was a couple of months ago, threatening you folks with more frequent postings and what happens?

Infrequent postings, that's what. Apparently, I fibbed.

Not on purpose, of course. My explanation/excuse is there's lots of work going on in the house. For the first time in 20-some years, much-needed repairs and decorating are transforming the place. But in the meantime, we’re living in chaos. I know, I know -- chaos describes most of the last 20-some years here. But this sort is different. This time there’s real hope for improvement on the other side of the mess. That light might not be an oncoming train at all. Could be a new fixture.

Let’s see...in the last two months I have replaced four sinks and a toilet. There’s new bathroom and kitchen floors and a new front door. The wreckroom ceiling is brand, spanking new. I replaced six light fixtures. As I write this, my living/dining room is about 1/3 hardwood floor, a beautiful, rich-looking, solid oak called “cognac.” (Which is what I want to drink a lot of after listening to a compressor and nail gun all day.)

By the way, I should mention I was using the royal “I” up there. My part in the renovations is swiping my credit card and writing cheques for the contractor. The actual work is being done by BillTheContractorGuy, assisted by Son #2.

(As longtime readers well know, I am not allowed to use power tools of any kind. I can hurt myself just fine with hand ones. Remarkably, #2 is adept with tools and eager to learn all aspects of repair and renovation, including using drills and saws and other lethal devices. DNA is weird, eh?)

Of course, my duties aren’t solely restricted to emptying my wallet. I also get to Frown Importantly while BillTheContractorGuy or a sales clerk from Home Depot are babbling about mortises or beveling or other equally incomprehensible contracting voodoo.

With apologies to George Bush, I am also The Decider. To me falls the burden of choosing flooring and fixtures and whatnot. I don’t know about you folks, but I’m the kind of Decider who prefers to have limited options. If there were only three colours, it would be darn sight easier to decorate.

Which brings me to giant warehouse stores.

I don’t much like giant warehouse stores. But apparently, nowadays, they are about the only places where contracting-type stuff is available.

Lots and lots and lots of it. Like, way more than three colours-worth.

When faced with too darn many choices, The Decider has a tendency to become The Ditherer. It’s difficult to select new light fixtures when there are many dozens to choose from. Especially when the person selecting has never, in his entire life, considered light fixtures beyond hoping they work when the switch is flipped.

Hilary offers a woman’s perspective when she’s here and something needs to be Decided. I always consider her counsel and have even been known to follow it. But she's only here for a couple of days every two weeks. So, more often than not, the burden of choice lies heavy on my shoulders alone.

Mine and the sales clerks from Home Depot.

Thank the gods many of those folks seem to know what they’re talking about! A nice lady helped me pick out the bathroom and kitchen floors and another helped with the front door. Yet another spent a half-hour giving me a crash course in hardwood flooring. She kindly paused whenever she noted my eyes glazing over, and would re-explain, using smaller words.

In any event, by the time all’s dithered and decided, I hope to have new windows, furnace and garage door too - perhaps even before winter sets in.

Unless, of course, there’s more than three kinds of windows, furnaces and garage doors.

I’ll keep you posted. Just not sure when, exactly.

October Is The Best Month Because (#206)

2009-10-19T14:58:00.001-04:00

1- Summer’s heat is gone - replaced by pleasant days and cool, almost cold nights. The air smells cleaner and feels lighter.

2- All the major North American sports seasons overlap. On any given day one can watch baseball, hockey, basketball or football. Sometimes, in an eyeball-bending orgy of remote control button mashing, one can watch eight or more games a day. (Not recommended for the casual sports fan. Sprains are common and hernias not unheard of.)

3- Mosquitoes are history ‘til June.

4- The fall colours are spectacular. October is the month in which Mother Nature reverts to childhood and finger paints her world. The lush green of the past several months still exists but now it’s in patches, surrounded by gleeful splashes of yellow, orange, red and brown.

5- Rainbow trout (Steelhead) start staging at the mouths of creeks that empty into the Great Lakes. There are few prettier sights than a crimson-slashed, sliver slab of finned muscle leaping at the end of one’s line.

6- The crowds thin out along my favourite walking paths. The salmon run is over (finally!). Ben and I start having stretches of creek and field to ourselves again.

7- The falling leaves make bird-spotting an easier task.

8- Children are settled back into school. Adults (who don’t teach for a living) seem to be in better humour. Probably not a coincidence.

9- The cool, nearly-cold nights make sitting around a fire more than just a pleasant indulgence. It awakens ancient, dna-deep memories of huddling around flames when doing so was necessary to stay alive.

10- It’s a time of plenty. The last harvests are coming in. Mason jars and other canning equipment appear on store shelves. I don’t “put up” jams or tomatoes or that sort of thing myself but I like to think others are. It reminds me of my youth when my mother and grandmothers prepared goodies that would last through the winter months.

11- Halloween.

12- There’s still two full months before having to panic about Christmas shopping.

I Hab A Bad Code (#205)

2009-10-08T14:15:00.002-04:00

But they’re the only kind I bother getting these days. Lemme s’plain.

Years ago, throughout my teens, 20s and 30s, I caught a lot of colds and every other one turned into a tonsil and/or sinus infection. Each bout of infection dragged on for weeks. Seemed I was always on antibiotics. Sometime in my late 30s I started taking garlic tablets daily along with vitamin C.

Back in the day, the famous Dr. Linus Pauling touted the benefits of mega doses of vitamin C. And somewhere I must have read something that convinced me to try garlic tablets as well.

I wasn’t about to emulate Pauling’s dosages of umpteen thousand milligrams a day, though. I started taking a daily dose of 500 mg of C and one garlic tablet (or capsule) which contained the equivalent of one garlic bulb’s goodness.

I haven’t had a sinus or tonsil infection since. Honest to Godfrey Daniel.

I also noticed I was getting fewer colds and found that doubling my dosage at the first sign of a tickly nose or slightly sore throat would often banish the symptoms entirely by the next day.

Although other factors could certainly have come into play, I believe that combination of agents helped eliminate (to date - touch wood!) my infections and prevent many colds.

In other words folks, for the last 20 years I’ve been packing a pretty darned impressive immune system. (Heart attacks don’t count.) When I swagger into a room, bacteria whimper and viruses flee. I radiate robustness.

Mostly.

The problem is, since my aforementioned Stupid Heart Attack (has it really been almost five years already?) I’ve had to take a bunch of pills every day. And I don’t like taking a bunch of pills every day.

Admittedly, it’s a relatively small price to pay for staying alive and I don’t begrudge it much but what happened is I started backing off on my daily garlic and C regimen. I just didn’t feel like adding more pills to the pile. Instead, I’d take a double dose at the first sign of something happening and still usually warded it off.

But alas, I am no longer invulnerable. The toughest, gnarliest, battle-hardened viruses now occasionally find a chink in my armour. The last few years, I’ve been getting a cold every year or eighteen months, almost like normal, non-robust people do.

This latest insidious virus slipped through a crack without triggering an alarm. Before I knew it, come last Sunday evening, I was righteously smote by viral vengeance. Yea, brothers and sisters, I was laid low.

With the suddenness of a summer storm, I was beset by chills, a sore throat, runny nose and streaming eyes. Knowing it was too late, I nevertheless gobbled down a garlic and C, almost - lapsed Catholic that I am - like a desperate Act of Contrition.

I was not saved.

Over the next 48 hours my initial symptoms were joined by headaches, congestion, an overproduction of phlegm and a painfully strained rib cage muscle (an unwelcome and unpleasant byproduct of coughing).

I bought a chicken and fixin’s and made soup. My only other medication was an occasional acetaminophen washed down with a hot toddy. Or maybe three hot toddies. My memory is a tad hazy because I was delirious.

Anyway, today, following a pretty good night’s sleep, I’m happy to report feeling quite a bit better.

And I’ve decided to renew my garlic and C habit. There aren’t that many heart meds, really. I’m down to five a day, from seven, so I really have no excuse.

It may well be that I’ll never get a cold again.

Although, those toddies were good. Kinda like a tonic. Hmm...might be helpful to add them to the garlic and C preventative strategy....

Yes folks, yet again, your kindly servant is prepared to sacrifice himself on the bleeding edge of medical research in order to learn Important Things which he will then, of course, pass on to you.

You’re very welcome.

###

Hot Toddy Recipe: Fill 2/3rds of a large mug (mine holds about 16 ounces or half a litre) with hot/boiling water. Add a capful of lemon juice concentrate, a teaspoon of honey and a generous splash of whisky, spiced rum, or my new favourite, Alpenbitter No. 7. Mix well and sip slowly. Reheat and repeat as necessary.

Yep, Another Excerpt From: Walking With Benny (#204)

2009-09-20T13:46:00.004-04:00

First, a bit of background about Jack Russell Terriers, of which Benny is one: Reverend John Russell, of Devonshire, England, originated the breed in the mid-late 1800s. He wanted the perfect dog for hunting foxes. And he pretty much got it. They are compact, strong, agile and intelligent. (Debate, in some circles, still rages over the latter characteristic.) However, most of today's JRTs aren't getting much fox action at all. It's been my experience, via Benny, that they have happily adapted to chasing squirrels as their primary raison d'etre.

9/20/09

There’s a sleek, young-looking black squirrel at the top end of the grove who has begun waiting for me every morning. Or more properly, waiting for my peanuts. I leave two in his territory, one on each of two adjoining cedars. At first I’d rarely see him, but on the return portion of our walk some 20 minutes later, the two peanuts were nearly always gone.

Sometimes I’d spot him on our way back, usually higher up in one of the cedars. But recently, on a couple of occasions, he appeared to shadow me as I walked through the grove, hopping from tree to tree alongside me, some 10-15 feet away. It dawned on me that the little beggar recognized me now and, having stashed or eaten the first two peanuts, was hoping for another for the road.

I’ve always believed diligence should be rewarded. I told him so and left one.

So for about the last week, as Ben and I were on the home leg of our morning walk, there he’d be - all but checking his watch and tapping his foot - awaiting his third peanut.

Unfortunately, a couple of days ago, Ben cottoned on to this. Usually, he’s 30-50 feet ahead of me and intent upon his nose’s business. But on this day, he happened to turn and saw the little guy scurry down the tree trunk to get his bonus treat. So, both yesterday and today, Ben has dashed ahead to those trees, looking for the squirrel who is looking for me. (Okay, my peanut.) As the squirrel clambers down a tree at my approach, Ben tries to clamber up it to meet him. The squirrel is not at all fond of this game and retreats a foot or two.

Ben, of course, interprets this as him winning! So, he redoubles his tree-climbing efforts.

Party pooper that I am, I call a halt to the proceedings by leaving a peanut and calling Ben away.

###

Many of the folks I meet on our walks, especially those who profess familiarity with terriers in general and JRTs in particular, comment on how well Ben listens when off the leash. I adopt an appropriately modest expression and mutter something about it taking a lot of work. And that’s no lie. But I think one practice in particular has helped.

Ben eats two smallish meals a day, morning and evening, and I always walk him before he’s eaten. I theorized that a hungry dog is more apt to want to stay in touch with his meal ticket.

I mean, if a full-bellied, content dog happens upon a really interesting scent that went WAY over thataway, why should he heed that vaguely familiar voice receding in the distance? What the heck does he need you for now?! We’re talking a really interesting scent, possibly a skunk!

So, there’s one of the secrets to becoming a Jack Russell whisperer and I suspect it’s applicable to every breed: Walk a hungry dog.

Sure, he’s going to swallow every rotten salmon egg he comes across but the occasional bit of barfing is better than chasing him all over heck’s half-acre.

Autumn & Arboreal Appreciation (#203)

2009-09-15T13:02:00.003-04:00

Well, I wasn’t fibbing. Hilary and I went to the cottage last week and had a fine time. There’s something to love about every time of year up there but autumn is my favourite. Days are still warm, nights cool and refreshing. The surrounding woods are busy with squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons and birds looking to fatten up before weathering winter’s chill, or heading south ahead of it.

The fishing is generally poor but being bathed in warm, golden September sun while keeping an eye out for eagles and other wildlife makes up for it.

And best of all...the mosquitoes are history. Hallelujah and pass the wieners! I love sitting around a fire in the evening but hordes of skitters make doing so unpleasant in the summer months (unless we get a rare, strongish, on-shore evening breeze).

I can’t think of a finer way to celebrate the passing of a beautiful day than sitting around a fire, sipping a soothing beverage, admiring the stars and listening to loons calling goodnight to each other.

So, I spent a portion of every day gathering firewood for that evening’s fire. This involved trundling up the driveway with a wheelbarrow and sorting through the deadfall which blankets the surrounding forest floor.

Much of the wood is punky, having lain too long against the ground and absorbing too much water but a lot of it is fine. Most of my focus is on birch, maple or oak limbs about as big around as my fist but I also gather a lot of finger-width kindling and a handful of wire-thin twigs for starter fuel.

Some of the pieces of wood are up to 12 feet long. The thinner ones I snap with my hands or across my knee. The thicker ones I prop against the wheelbarrow or tree trunk and break with a kick.

Benny, who rarely lets me out of his sight, no longer accompanies me on these missions. I finally scolded him VERY severely one day a couple of years ago. I got fed up with having to wrestle with him for every single piece of wood I touched. Now, he stays with Hilary when I fetch the wheelbarrow.

It takes about a half-hour to 40 minutes to gather a load of wood that will keep burning for a few hours. A half-hour to 40 minutes of bending, stretching, dragging and stomping. It didn’t used to take so long. But apparently gravity’s gotten stronger over the years, resulting in each piece of wood getting slightly heavier and increased effort being required to straighten up again after bending and lifting. I can only surmise that all the scientists are too darn busy focusing on global warming to notice this new threat.

On my third gathering foray, my lower back started yelling at me. It had muttered a tad the day before but I found it easy enough to tune out -- like when your Significant Other is talking about something non sports-related.

There was no ignoring it this time, though. It went from a dull ache to an ouchy cramp in no time. I needed to rest it somewhere for a minute or three.

A nearby poplar, about as big around as me, was listing at about a 25 degree angle. Chances are, it will join its brethren on the forest floor in 10-15 years. For now though, it still had a goodly grip on the soil. I found I could brace my feet on its protruding roots, skootch down a smidge and lean back against its trunk, easing my discomfort considerably.

Greatly appreciative, I thanked the tree and rested against it. Then I began to consider all that trees do for us.

They provide shelter, food, medicine and protection for animals and man. As if that isn’t enough, while they’re at it, they produce oxygen for the whole planet. We use them to build houses and furniture, to make newspapers and toilet tissue. We gather their broken limbs to warm us and cook food and keep us safe against the things that go bump in the night.

We climb them for adventure, enjoy their shade on hot summer days and string hammocks between their trunks.

And sometimes we lean against them to soothe a sore back.

While doing so, and several times since, I tried to think of another form of life nearly so beneficent to mankind. Couldn’t.

Still can’t.

Have you thanked a tree today?

A Clue To My Whereabouts

2009-09-08T01:17:00.004-04:00

and what I'll be doing for the next several days.

You're an astute lot. I know you'll figure it out.

Here it is:

Keep well. See you soon.

10 Things I Believe Are True (#202)

2009-09-01T23:22:00.002-04:00

1 - All living things have an inherent nobility and deserve respect.

2 - If you don’t look, you’ll never see. If you don’t listen, you’ll never hear. If you don’t slow down regularly and stop occasionally, you’ll go nuts.

3 - Women and men are different.

4 - No treasure is more dear than a true friend.

5 - Despite radical differences among breeds, all dogs excel at companionship.

6 - Baseball is a beautiful game.

7 - Fishing helps me stay in tune with Nature and hence, myself.

8 - Service to others is our most noble calling.

9 - Children know important things that most of us have forgotten.

10 - Newsprint gets smaller and blurrier once you turn 50.

I was going to elaborate on each, briefly, but of course I started running off at the brain and quickly realized I’d tax your patience (and risk numbing your lips) if I did. So, maybe I will on a few of them in a day or three. Or not. Maybe they don’t need no steenkin’ elaboration.

We’ll see.

Un Autre Faux Pas (#201)

2009-08-23T13:05:00.002-04:00

What binds us as humans? What, more than anything else, promotes a sense of fellowship?

Oo! Oo! I know! Pick me, teacher! Pick me!

Go ahead, Frankie.

Why, it’s shared experience, of course. We all know what’s it like to be angry, sad, joyful, scared, excited and embarrassed. Especially embarrassed. We can relate to each other in a more meaningful fashion because we’ve all experienced similar feelings. Especially embarrassment. I mean, everybody says or does something dumb once in a while, don’t they?

Longtime readers may recall the story of my Grade 10 French teacher’s buttocks finding their way into my hand. Tres embarrassment la, I must say.

And perhaps you remember the day I was Christmas shopping and my elbow was assaulted by a woman’s bosom. Not my fault of course, but still a tad embarrassing.

Well, I did it again. And it involved a woman again. Well, a girl/woman, of 18. And it sort of related to body parts (but not naughty bits this time, thank goodness).

Son #2 was having a few friends over one evening a couple of weeks ago. They were gathered in the basement wreck room. Sounds of high hilarity and video game crashes and explosions prevented anyone but me from hearing the knock on the front door.

I got up to answer, expecting one of #2's urchin friends. Instead, I saw nothing, nobody. For a second. Then, in the deepening evening gloom, I saw a pretty young woman kneeling - actually, on her knees but leaning backwards, sitting on the backs of her calves - and smiling up at me. I didn’t recognize her but figured she must be one of #2's friends or a friend of a friend.

I smiled down at her. Obviously, she was expecting someone she knew to answer the door and was preparing to play a little joke on them.

“Hi. Is Son #2 home?” Only she called him “Jake,” which is his name.

About then Devon, one of Jake’s buds, arrived from the wreck room. I guess someone else heard the knock, after all.

“Hi April,” he said.

“Hi Dev.”

“Well,” I grinned and held the door open. “Come on in. And no need to crawl.”

“Actually, I have to.” Without a lapse in her smile, she tossed her head to indicate behind her. “I had to leave my chair at the end of the driveway.”

I peered and could just make out her wheelchair behind my car. Since I rented the large dumpster, there was no room between my car and the lawn to negotiate her chair closer to the house.

I stood aside, laughing ruefully and shaking my head at my dunce-osity, as April set her hands on the ground, then lifted and swung her knees into the front hall. Laughing off my apology and rocking forward on her hands and knees, she made her way along the hall. I asked if she needed help with the stairs and she cheerfully refused. It seemed she had no use of her legs below the knees. But there was nothing wrong with the rest of her and her confident good nature was a balm to my embarrassment.

But sheesh. I mean, holy mackerel. What a maroon.

Muttering to myself, I walked to the end of the drive and carried her chair closer to the front door. I didn't want to leave it so close to the street. Darn thing was heavy. Jake or one of his buds could carry it back for her when she needed it. I recalled him mentioning a friend named April from time to time, but he’d never talked of her disability.

Later, when the kids had gone home, I asked him why he’d never mentioned it before. He shrugged, saying it never occurred to him. It was no big deal. April was just April.

Which, of course, is exactly right.

April is April and Frank is Frank and faux pas (pases?) happen to everybody.

Right?

Everything Old Is New Again (#200)

2009-08-17T14:07:00.002-04:00

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

The blog spiffication of which I wrote last time, waaaaaaaaay back in July, is just one of several renovation projects I have on the go. After a couple of decades of neglect, I’m having work done on my house. Soon, the leaking windows and skylight will be replaced. The stinky old, stained carpeting should be history by mid-winter, replaced by hardwood flooring.

As we speak, there is a large dumpster occupying most of my driveway and it’s nearly full of junk from the basement, garage and yard. I have a new back deck upon which my barbeque no longer lists at an alarming angle and a new front door that actually closes!

Pretty heady stuff, indeed.

However, one must be careful when caught up in the euphoria of change. A new this and a spiffified that could lead to regarding everything elderly with a critical eye. It’s a good job I rarely look in mirrors.

Where Was I?

Just came back from a longish visit at the family cottage with Hilary and Ben. At various times we were joined by sisters Lisa and Theresa, Lisa’s husband, Ches, their dog, their oldest boy Nathaniel and his girlfriend and Theresa’s two 10-week-old kittens. Two and sometimes a third raccoon were nightly visitors.

Theresa volunteers as a wildlife rehabilitator who specializes in orphaned raccoons, squirrels and occasionally, birds. Two of the nightly visitors are recently released young raccoons which were originally found living under Hilary’s deck some months ago. The third one, who appears somewhat older though not yet full grown, seems to be hanging around with them. We’re augmenting their feeding in hopes of fattening them up enough to have a chance of surviving winter. Without a mother’s teaching, the odds may be long. We’re hoping though, that the newcomer has learned a few survival tricks it can pass on to the youngsters.

Hilary took scads of pics and will no doubt be showing and writing about them soon at her blog. I’ll give you folks who aren’t regular visitors there (you should be!) a heads-up when they appear.

Good News & Bad News

I started this column a few years ago and distributed it solely via email which is how most of you still read it. Then I decided to post it on my blog as well and some folks read it there instead. I’ve hinted periodically that it’s quite time consuming having to format it separately. It’s possible that the hinting had a whiny note to it.

So...continuing in the spirit of change, I’ve decided to no longer send out the emailed version. However, I’ll continue to email notification of a new blog post and include the link, making it easy for most of you to visit. I know that some of you receive and read the column at your work computer and can’t visit the blog from there because of surfing restrictions. Apparently, the New Improved Blogger, to which I upgraded during the spiffication process, will allow me to automatically email the column to a select number of recipients. As of this writing, I have no idea how many or how to make it work. But I promise to find out soon. If you are among those who’d prefer to receive it that way, please drop me a line. (Donna, I know you’re one of ‘em.)

I think it very likely that I’ll write more frequently because of this decision. (That’s both the good and bad news.) It will be so much easier to compose and format only once.

Off Again

As I write this, I’m preparing to leave again for the cottage tomorrow. (Writing while the washing machine is running counts as multi-tasking.) This time, Ben and I will be accompanied by Son #2 and one of his buddies. Here in southern Ontario, we’re enduring our first prolonged heat wave of the summer, with daily temperatures in the 90s F and humidex readings well over 100F. It will be good to jump off the dock into the cool, refreshing waters of the lake.

So please forgive me if I don’t reply to your emails or comments for a few days. Hope all of you are enjoying a fine summer. (Or winter for you Oddsies and that Brazil nut.)

PS to fellow Bloggers: You might notice that I changed the name of my blog to match that of my emailed column. Those of you kind enough to add me to your blog rolls may want to reflect that change. If you're a techno-dweeb like me and avoid that sort of thing as much as possible, nevermind. The web address will remain the same.

Blog Spiffication (#199)

2009-07-07T14:24:00.002-04:00

“Your blog looks really old and tired.” Hilary’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Then again, I suppose-”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“-it suits you.”

“Very funny. So funny, I forgot to laugh.”

She’s not the only one who can deliver a zinger.

“How the heck can something as newfangled as blogging be ‘old and tired?’ I mean, computers have only been around for a few years and blogging for what - maybe five or six? Wringer washing machines now - they’re old and tired-looking. If I had a wringer washing machine, I’d probably invest in a new one. Almost for sure. People have had their entire arms crushed by those things. Right up to the shoulder. They should be banned.”

But she would not be sidetracked.

“If you switch to the new format, which, by the way, is no longer really new because EVERYONE else switched two years ago, you can choose from a huge variety of looks and it’s easy to do things like incorporate your own banner and personalize the appearance. Plus there’s new tools to make the whole blogging process less of a pain.”

“How much they pay you to shill for them?”

That earned me The Look.

(An aside for guys only. You womenfolk skip this bit. No, seriously, skip this paragraph. Brad Pitt is in the next one. Honest. Go look...Okay, they’re gone. All guys know, and many fear, The Look. It is disdainful and meant to wither. The trick is to not make eye contact. Just look at her nose and you’ll be fine. To be on the safe side, I always only ever look at Hilary’s nose, no matter what’s being discussed.)

Anyway, that’s pretty much how the conversation went a few months ago. As those of you who’ve been reading me for a while know - I don’t deal well with change. There’s a certain wrongness about change and I think I’ve figured out what it is: It’s different. And things that are different usually means there’s some learning to do. And learning is hard. Like Math.

So, I’ve been mulling this whole blog spiffication thing for several weeks now. The thing is, as I understand it, it’s like parachuting. Once you push the Blog Change Button, you’re committed. You’ve jumped off the plane and whoa buddy - that pull cord better work as advertised! It’s conceivable that every blog post I’ve ever made, every picture I’ve ever posted, will be lost in one of the Interweb’s notorious Black Holes, never to be seen again.

But what the heck, I’m gonna do it.

Not immediately, of course. Musn’t be hasty. No good ever came from rushing. No, I’ll do it in time for my next blolum, which, for those of you keeping score at home, will be #200. Surely a bicentennial needs to be marked in some special manner.

So, in a week, or two, or three, you folks will be able to see a new, improved, ultra-spiffified blog.

Or a big black hole. Which, of course, would be Hilary's fault.

Catching Up & Some Pics (#198)

2009-06-17T11:26:00.002-04:00

We’re rolling out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer here in the Great White North. I don’t do real well with heat. Which means I’ve been even less ambitious than usual. So, I’ll tidy a few loose ends and post some pics in lieu of actually having to think about something.

###

Some of you may recall my epic battle with Bell Canada. If not, and you would like to read the blow-by-blow accounts of my heroic struggle, you can find them here and here.

Well, I’m happy to report that since those words hit the Interweb, I have not received a single dunning letter. They’ve stopped. And no cop-voiced guys have called, telling scary stories about what happens to deadbeats when the Bad Credit Monster is unleashed.

I suppose it could be a coincidence. But I suspect Someone In Authority read the stories and decided to remove me from the list.

See? There is a God.

###

I saw the young crow once more, two mornings after I wrote about him. Since then, nada. There has been no gathering of crows in that area. Nor have I seen a youngster hanging around. Pretty sure it’s safe to assume he’s flitting about with his friends and family, cawing his fool head off. I feel pretty good when I think about that.

###

Some of the photos which follow should have accompanied the previous column/post. I took them the same day. However, due to that lack of ambition thing referred to in my opener, I didn’t get around to uploading them to my computer until now. My bad.

The above pic is a peek into what I call the North Cedar Grove after a couple days of rain. Ben and I walk through it most mornings.

This cedar gives you an idea of their individuality. I refer to this one as Elephant Nose.

This shot illustrates the texture that I mentioned when the bark is wet. You can see it more clearly if you click on the photo to get a larger view. (Then hit your back button to get back to this page.) You may also note the peanut I left for a squirrel or bluejay.

Since I'm such a fun guy....

This enterprising slug and snail climbed nearly six feet up a tree. If gooey critters ain't your cuppa, you'd best skip over the next shot.

This log was alive with tiny slugs and snails after a couple of rainy days.

This is the north half of my backyard. In the background, you can see the spiffy birdbath Hilary got me for my birthday. A couple of days after this shot, all the poppies you can see in the foreground burst open in a blaze of short-lived, orange glory.

I'll wrap up by showing the results of a fishing foray to a small stream about a half-hour's drive away: two nice brown trout. The bigger one was 16 inches. Both did my frying pan proud.

Crows Among The Standing People (#197)

2009-06-01T11:31:00.002-04:00

Soggy out there this morning and overcast. Lots of rain yesterday and more on the way today. Couldn’t find my rubber boots (memo to self: clobber one of the boys) so I put on the hiking shoes I bought yesterday. The puddly, mucky path would soon show me if they were more weatherproof than their disappointing predecessors.

I am always struck by how impressive the cedars look when their bark is soaked. The saturated moisture enhances their already-considerable character. Each of the old trees is distinct from its neighbour in the tilt of its trunk and the arrangement of arched limbs, whorls and scars. And the differences seem more stark when the trees are wet. They truly are a marvel and being among them is humbling. They speak of endurance, patience and the wisdom of ages. I better understand why many First Nations people refer to trees as Standing People.

And of course, there’s the green. Post-rain green - the green of the ferns, grasses, flower stems and leaves - is the greenest of greens. All in all, a treat for the eyes this morning. Much different from the “usual” treat of a sunny, early summer day.

As we normally do, Benny and I followed the dirt path along the creek north of the dam. I paused at the three rocks to place a peanut on a nearby willow limb. Ben was a few yards ahead, as he often is. Nearby, crows cawed their approach. I answered in kind, declaring my own presence. Suddenly, their calling was very close and raucous with alarm. I looked ahead along the path just as Ben turned back to look at me. Between us, but much closer to Ben, was a fledgling crow hopping along the path.

It beats the heck out of me why Ben didn’t make a move to chase the bird. He chases every moving object smaller than a jumbo jet. Maybe he was distracted by the adult crows’ clamour. Maybe he sensed my panicky “No! Don’t” thoughts. In any event, he responded immediately to my beckon and call, ran past the young crow, within 12 inches in fact, and back to me.

I stood rooted in the path for a moment, torn with indecision. Should I try to intervene? The fledgling was hopping along uncertainly, with an occasional wobble. I could put the leash back on Ben, tether him to something and try to assist the crow. But how? By lifting it into a tree? Did it even need assistance? It appeared more bewildered than injured. Would the adults allow me to approach it?

There were three adult crows that I could see. The nearest was in a maple sapling only slightly above my eye level and 15 feet away. I looked at him and asked aloud, “What would you have me do?”

Can’t say he answered me but I felt the right thing to do was turn around and leave the way we came. During my half-minute of pondering - as Ben circled my legs, awaiting our next move - the cawing had lost its frantic edge but remained near-constant, a worried muttering.

“Okay, friend crow. We’re leaving. Good luck with the little one.”

I turned my back and called Ben to follow. Within three steps, the cawing behind us ceased.

I think we made the right call. (Or, as Hilary might write, caw-l.)

And the boots were fine.

###

Addendum: I wrote the above last Thursday but decided not to mail/post it right away. Friday morning, the fledgling and several adults were still there. This time, the youngster was in a small bush, only about three feet off the ground. Again, I paused to ponder whether I should intervene. The adults weren’t as frantic as they were the day before but their soft caws still evidenced concern. I usually travel out of town every weekend to stay at Hilary’s and was to leave in a couple of hours.

The adults were obviously minding the bird. Although I hadn’t witnessed it, I’m sure they were providing the youngster with food. The weather was mild. My main concern was its vulnerability to predators.

Once again, I decided to leave him be.

However, I spent a goodly portion of the weekend fretting and set out this morning, Monday, very anxious to not-see a certain bird.

I heard no cautionary caws as I neared the area and saw no adults. But it didn’t take me long to spot the fledgling - preening unconcernedly - about 30 feet above me in a maple tree. Obviously, over the weekend, the youngster had either brushed up on his tree-climbing skills or he had figured out how to work those wings a little.

Colour me relieved. He seems fine. I’m reasonably sure that the absence of mindful adults is proof that the crisis has passed.

But I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if there’s any news.

Deception (#196)

2009-05-21T13:02:00.002-04:00

Deception is almost always an unpleasant bit of business, isn’t it? Sure, a situation might develop wherein one might ethically use deceit, like in the classic, do-I-look-chubby-in-this-muumuu? example.

One might also hide intentions, along with a gift or two, when it comes to a surprise birthday party. Nothing wrong with deceit there.

Deception becomes a problem when it starts occurring regularly in a relationship. We’ve all been there haven’t we? Betrayed by a lover. Stung. Angry. Confused. We become temporary (usually) students of the school of Men/Women-Are-No-Darn-Good. But eventually our wounded psyche heals and we decide to give love another shot.

From a lover, from ambitious co-workers, from those kindly folks phoning and ringing doorbells to offer us wonderful goodies, deception can be expected at some point along life’s path. But how does one deal with it when it comes from man’s best friend, from that most loyal and noble of companions?

Yes. Sadly, I’ve discovered Benny is a four-legged fibber.

Look at this face:

Hard to believe isn’t it? Yet daily, I am confronted by the evidence.

Here’s the sad story:

Ben is crate-trained which basically means he sleeps in a wire cage. It’s not bad. He has a cot, a teensy window, a toilet in the corner and a slot for his food tray.

Hehehe. Almost had you going there, didn’t I? Admit it. Hehehe.

Kidding about the prison thing. Ben’s crate has a bed and a pillow (I spoil that animal) and has always represented a safe place for sleep and for transport. It sits beside Lucy The Parrot’s cage near the front living room window and when at home, we lay a pad across its top. Ben likes to sit atop the crate. From there, he can keep an eye on the front yard in between catching a few winks in the sun. It’s also where he can be seen every time I back out of the driveway to go somewhere. Without fail, every time he realizes I’m leaving the house without him, he leaps onto his crate to watch me go.

Now, I need you folks to picture this. My house is laid out in such a way that upon entering the front door, one can see through the hall, directly into my office/library/den. Behind my desk are sliding glass doors leading to the backyard. Anyone entering the front door has a clear view of those rear doors. Ben long ago determined that our backyard was to be a squirrel-free zone. And rabbit-free. And occasionally mourning dove-free. But squirrels are the main bane of his existence.

So, particularly when I’m in the room, he spends much of his day staring through, lounging beside, or hurling himself at, those glass doors.

Several weeks ago, upon returning from a short errand, I walked through the front door and saw a rear-view of Ben gazing out those patio doors. It was impressive. He was the very Poster Pup of vigilance. His back was ramrod straight, tail erect and unquivering. His ears were perked forward. He did not so much as twitch at the sound of my arrival, let alone do his usual Daddy’s Home! leaping and bouncing off various parts of my anatomy.

This dog was On The Job.

Over the next week or two, the same tableau was presented to my eyes every time I came home from an errand.

I was touched. How comforting to know I could go to the grocery store for 15 minutes, secure in the knowledge that my house would not be teeming with squirrels upon my return. Surely such devotion to duty warranted a treat and an extra dollop of gravy in his evening kibble.

And then it happened.

I guess he wasn’t expecting me home so soon and I caught him red-pawed. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw him through the front window, lifting his head as if from a sound sleep. But, by the time I entered the house some 12 seconds later, he was standing at those rear patio doors, ears, back and tail erect - guarding his fool head off. He didn’t even turn around when I called his name, though his tail wagged once.

I told the boys and Hilary about it and each has now witnessed his deception several times themselves. We’ve all watched him jump off his crate upon our return to the driveway, only to find that seconds later, he has traversed the width of the house and negotiated a set of stairs to pose in front of those patio doors.

So there you have it. Canine deceit. Who’da thunk it? After mulling a while, I decided there’s not much point in talking to him about it. We’d both just be embarrassed. So, everybody pretends we don’t know that he’s only pretending to guard the backyard while we’re gone.

He still gets some gravy or soup mixed into his kibble. He might not guard real well but he’s a heck of an actor.

A Life Less Ordinary (#195)

2009-05-07T12:56:00.002-04:00

I knew living an ordinary life was not for me when I was seven or eight (or nine, heck I can’t recall exactly) years old and broke Billy McIntyre’s arrow.

Billy was a couple of years older and lived next door. We didn’t go to the same school and weren’t exactly friends but obviously we knew each other. I was a little afraid of him. He was big and had a temper and wasn’t averse to beating someone up.

Back then in the 1950s, at our ages, “beating someone up” meant cuffing them a few times and shoving them down on the ground. You might end up with a few scrapes and a bloody nose. Nobody died and most guys wouldn’t even tell their Mom - as long as they could cover up the evidence - but it still wasn’t much fun being on the receiving end.

At the time, we lived in very modest part of a small working class city. Billy was an only child and probably the kid on our street who came closest to being rich. He never wore hand-me-downs from his cousins and always got really neat stuff for his birthday and Christmas and sometimes just because.

One summer day I went outside to see Billy in his backyard shooting a for-real bow and arrow. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was just like the ones on tv and in Dad’s hunting and fishing magazines. There were no rubber cups on the end of those missiles. The business ends of the arrows were metal, rounded but conical, and with something of a tapered tip.

It would likely bounce off a bear but you could certainly put someone’s eye out with it. My mother would have a fit if she saw me shooting one.

So I had to work fast.

I hopped the fence over to Billy’s yard and starting chatting. I remember acting cool, like it was an everyday thing for me to be talking with someone who was shooting a for-real bow and arrow into a target pinned onto stacked bales of hay.

I watched him for a few minutes and casually asked if I could take a couple of shots. He said maybe later. He had to go in for lunch soon.

I was in agony. Every minute I waited brought my mother a minute closer to seeing what I was up to and forbidding it.

About two eternities later, Billy’s mother finally called him in for lunch. He looked at the bow in his hand and then at me.

“If you wreck it, I’ll kill you.”

I barely heard him. I took the bow and fetched the arrows from the hay. There were only two. That was fine. One would have been perfect.

I walked to the back of Billy’s house, as far from the target as I could get. As I notched the arrow to the bowstring, I was struck by a thought: I wonder how high I can shoot this thing?

I squinted up into cloudless summer blue and decided to find out. I bet it would go three or four times higher than a house.

I drew back the bow and aimed nearly straight up, then fired. I watched, delighted, as the arrow soared skyward, impossibly high, tilted, and began its earthward plummet. It landed, quivering slightly, nearly at the foot of the hay bales at the end of the yard.

Beauty!

I notched the second arrow, pointed skyward, pulled and watched - watched as the arrow followed a similar trajectory to the first. Watched, with mixed horror and delight as it followed the exact trajectory of the first and landed atop it - splitting the first arrow down the middle.

Holy Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints!

I walked over, not quite believing my eyes. Bending down, I marveled at the perfectly bisected arrow.

My amazement was tinged with dread, of course. I had a hunch Billy’s focus might be on the ruined arrow instead of where it belonged -- on the phenomenal circumstance that resulted in the ruination.

Now here we are at the end of the story and I can’t help but feel I’m going to cheat you folks a little. I honestly don’t recall if Billy beat me up or not. It was immaterial, really. What I took from the day is a perfect recollection of that brilliant blue sky and a deep-seated sense that the extraordinary could be just around the next corner.

The Life Of A River Rat (#194)

2009-04-20T12:54:00.004-04:00

It may surprise some of you to learn there was a brief interval in my life during which I may have been accurately characterized as a ne’er-do-well.

No, seriously, it’s true.

Others among you (most of whom share a percentage of my DNA) might suggest there’s only been a brief interval in my life during which I might not be called such. Or worse.

Let’s not argue. Who’s telling this story anyway?

Where was I? Oh yeah – somewhere in the mid-70s when I was in my mid-20s.

The freelance writing thing wasn’t working out too well yet. I had a string of what we, back then, called “Joe” jobs, loosely defined as those which couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a career - or even the first tentative steps towards one.

Half the time I was out of work, and for two to four months a year collected “pogey” - unemployment insurance. It wasn’t enough to live at all well on.

Unless you were a river rat.

A river rat’s needs are simple: fishing tackle, tobacco, gas and booze. The rest we left up to Mother Nature and working spouses.

I blame my wife-at-the-time’s brother. I helped introduce him to fishing and darned if he didn’t take to it. He too, was out of work a fair bit. As were some of his buddies.

Darned if many of them didn’t take to fishing as well and begin to accompany us. Of course, I wasn’t surprised. I’m surprised when I come across folks who are immune to the charms of worms and fish slime.

So, a group of four to six of us tended to find ourselves among a larger group of 15-25 men (never met a ratette, though I’m sure at least a couple exist) who greeted most dawns and sunsets on the banks of one stream or another during various fishing seasons.

Our boots would crunch through frost-stiffened stalks of field grass and frozen puddles until we reached the stream bank. There, we’d wander up or down, heading to the next-best pool not already covered by a couple of anglers.

Somebody would build a fire after casting out his line and resting it on a forked stick - careful to leave the bail open so an interested fish could pull line out freely.

Somebody else would pass around a bottle of belly warmer. We’d either take a sip or add a splash to a thermos cup of coffee. We ate strips of beef jerky, chunks of cheese, hard-boiled eggs and slices of kielbasa.

We kept the car windows open a lot on the way home.

Each new arrival was greeted, by nod or by name. Eventually, everybody knew everybody else. Before long, I knew way too much about other men’s wives, girlfriends and bosses.

We became a community - a community of river rats.

There were weeks on end when we’d spend up to 20 hours a day along the banks of local streams and rivers. If we heard the walleye were staging at a particular dam 70 miles away, we’d be there from dusk to dawn. If the steelhead were running in Wilmot creek or the Ganaraska river, we’d be there three or four hours after the pub closed and stay until some necessity or another called us home.

We’d smoke, drink, tell lies and catch fish. It wasn’t a bad life – if you were single and independently wealthy.

A couple of us were single but none were wealthy. A couple more of us became single along the way. It may or may not surprise you how few spouses are content to support the lifestyle of a river rat.

Eventually, maturity reared its ugly head and I left the river rat life behind.

Memories of those days came back to me recently while out fishing for steelhead. I set up across the creek from a small group of young men in their late teens or early 20s. They had the look of young ratlings-in-progress. If I’d been downwind of them I might have been able to confirm my suspicion -- bathing not being a high priority among river rats.

As I stood there, enjoying the day and gnawing on a hunk of kielbasa, it occurred to me that I could probably afford to revisit that lifestyle again, should I wish. My responsibilities have diminished as the boys have gotten older. And on some level, the prospect appeals to me very much.

But I’m more of a loner these days. Plus I no longer smoke. And I won’t drink and drive. And, worst of all, I have too darn many aching body parts to withstand the rigors of full-time river ratting.

But I’m definitely going to be wetting my line much more frequently than I have the last 30 years or so.

Those nearest and dearest to me needn’t worry. I’ll need a hot shower or bath afterwards to soothe those creaky body parts.

Determination (#193)

2009-04-06T12:05:00.002-04:00

Last evening’s walk was one for the book. It was Sunday, Ben and I had just come back from Hilary’s and it was about 48 hours after the Big Flood.

On the previous Friday, when Hilary and I headed back to her place, it rained like Noah was still in business. The not-yet-completely-thawed ground was already saturated from snow melt and previous rains. It couldn’t hold any more water.

The result was predictable.

Son #1 emailed pictures taken across the road from our house, where Ben and I take our daily walks. The paved pathway, which in some instances is twenty or more metres from the creek banks, was completely underwater. Benches looked like they were floating.

Now, two days later, the waters had subsided to only inches above normal instead of several feet. Just before leaving on our walk, I’d had a brief argument with myself about footwear. If I stuck to the paved path and didn’t go all the way to the south cedar grove, I wouldn’t have to wear my rubber boots – which weren’t as comfortable to walk in as their laced-up kin.

As Ben patiently tugged at the cuff of my pants, I finally decided to go with the rubber boots. Now, as I trod the muddy path that followed the creek, rather than walking the paved pathways, I was pleased with my decision.

Along the way, perhaps half-way to our turnaround point, I came upon the bleached body of a flood-tossed fish. This isn’t too unusual in the aftermath of a flood. But despite my familiarity with the creek and its denizens, I couldn’t immediately identify this one.

It was about four inches long and white-ish gold, with the body shape of a chubby perch or shad. A faint tinge of washed-out orange surrounded the edges of the fish, leading me to suspect that its other side - the one lying against the mud of the path - would show a darker shade. It was probably a goldfish, perhaps someone’s unwanted pet released into the creek or washed out of a backyard pond. An unusual and sad place for a pet to die.

Did I just see its mouth gape? Impossible.

Bending low, I stared hard. There - it was faint but unmistakable - a tiny tremor of the gills and mouth. The fish was trying to breathe.

I picked it up and stumbled the 15 feet to the creek. Stumbled, because the mud near the eddy I walked toward was very soft. I didn’t risk releasing it anywhere but into a quiet eddy. The swift main current would quickly remove this last, faint whisper of a chance for survival. In three steps I nearly reached the eddy. In five I was stuck.

I stretched towards the water and eased the fish into it. Ben, of course, was there to help. Since he weighs approximately 190 pounds less than I, he had no trouble staying atop the mud. I shooed him away and tried to keep the small fish upright in the cold water, without losing my balance completely and tumbling bass-ackwards into several inches of goop.

It was tricky.

After about 30 seconds, I had to let go of the fish. It was either that or face the ignominy of waiting for the fire department to fetch me out. Which could take a while since #1 was watching Wrestlemania at a friend’s house for the next several hours; #2 was in Cuba for a week, and a quick pat of my pockets reminded me that I’d left my cell phone in another jacket. Pretty sure Ben had never seen an episode of Lassie so he wouldn’t have a clue what to do either.

I saw the fish's gills flare once, weakly, before it slipped onto its side and drifted into the depths of the eddy.

The next minute or two provided about as much drama as I care to deal with these days. My boots were about a foot deep in muck and resisted every attempt to lift. I corkscrewed my body and rested some of my weight on my hands in the somewhat firmer mud behind me. I formed a tripod of sorts as I struggled to free my right foot. Finally, with a disgruntled sucking sound, the mud released its grip. In another moment, I managed to free the left boot.

A few slogging steps later, I stood, panting, back atop the bank and marveled - both at my escape and that fish.

I'd found it about four or five feet above the current water level and fifteen feet away from it. The poor, no doubt, still-doomed creature, had to have been lying on muddy land for several hours, very likely for at least 24.

And it flat-out refused to die.

When I picked it up, I was struck by how dry the skin on its exposed side was, especially compared with the relatively slick side which had been lying against the mud. The fish should have been long-dead.

There’s only the slightest doubt in my mind that all I did was extend its dying for a time.

Only the slightest.

But that’s okay. I’m confident it would prefer to take its last breath in the water and am glad it waited for me to help make that happen.

Recently Thunk Thoughts (#192)

2009-03-11T14:11:00.002-04:00

As many of you know, I embrace new developments in technology like I would a porcupine. But Google, which I use as the home page on my computer’s browser, has some spiffy stuff you can add to your page, like weather reports, sports scores etc. I’ve added quite a few of them and it hardly hurt at all.

My favourite of these (and please forgive if I’ve mentioned this before) is a virtual sticky note. I’m an inveterate note-jotter. My house is chock-full of notebooks, pieces of paper and old envelopes with memos scribbled on them.

The problem with paper notes is they’re so darn easy to lose track of. Not only that, but the mere writing of a task-to-be-done on a piece of paper gives me a sense of accomplishment. So much so, that I often no longer feel compelled to actually do the task itself. Obviously, it doesn’t need to be done immediately, or there’d be no need for a note. Which goes a long way towards understanding why my house looks like it does. Somewhere under all the notes lurks a mess.

But I digress.

I’ve been using the virtual notepad to jot down ideas that might be worth writing about sometime. The beauty of it is, it never goes away. I see the notes all the time. Eventually, I get around to expanding on one and presto - I have a column/blog post!

Recently, I jotted down three thoughts. I’m too lazy to expand each into a column right now so I’ll just toss ‘em out there.

Thought #1:

I forget what prompted it exactly, probably some whining from one of the lads when I asked him to do something. But I got to thinking of what the definition of a “real” man was and came up with this: One who does a job that needs doing* without complaint or expectation of reward or praise.

I’m aware that this could apply to a woman too, of course. So let’s make it a definition of “maturity.”

Thought #2:

If your needs are simple, they’re more easily met - leaving you more time (and probably money) to pursue desires.

I think a lot of folks confuse the two, equating desires with needs. That can lead to all manner of problems, not the least of which are children who don’t spend enough time with their parents. You might need a new car but that doesn’t mean it has to be an Audi. Dial your expectations back to the basics - food, shelter, clothing (which ain’t the same as haute cuisine, a mansion and designer duds). You’ll be happier. And have more time for fishing.

Thought #3:

All dogs are not created equal.

If you believe slavish obedience is an important quality in a dog, and apparently many people do, don’t ever get a Jack Russell Terrier. Different breeds suit different people. Some of the unhappiest marriages I’ve witnessed have been between mismatched pets and owners. In these instances, both parties suffer but the animal more so. Please do your due diligence before purchasing or adopting any animal. Talk to friends and neighbours about their pets. Consult a vet for recommendations.

You’ll be glad you did and so will the new addition to your family.

* The key words here are “needs doing.” If the task wasn't urgent, one might get by with simply jotting down a note.

Winter Pics - Starring Benny

2009-03-03T11:30:00.003-05:00

Ben appears to be none-too-sure about all this white stuff in the backyard. (You can click on each photo to see them a little larger.)

Before too long though, he's carved himself a path.

The stream tunnels under a small ice bridge. Wouldn't trust it with my weight. Not that I'm large. Heck no. It's the heavy winter clothing. Boots alone are like, 11 pounds. Each.

That tall, oh-so-slim shadow gives you a clue as to the angle of the sun.

Winter's serene, icy beauty is undeniable. In the background, a cedar tree supports its fallen cousin, a victim of a strong nor'easter.

Ben, ever vigilant, suspects the presence of his arch-enemy, Mr. Squirrel.

About two weeks ago, we experienced a sudden thaw and heavy rain. As always, the combination resulted in flooding. The creek usually meanders placidly to the far right of Sons #1 & #2. Here, you can see it running down the center of the pathway, as well as from the left, having curled its way through a stand of cedars.

Back indoors, I took this shot through my none-too-clean kitchen window. Four fluffy mourning doves shelter in a window planter.

The bird feeder out front has been busy this winter, as evidenced by a couple of sparrows and a cardinal, patiently waiting his turn.

Ben is fascinated with Lucy, our African Grey parrot. He doesn't know quite what to make of her and follows her around whenever she's out of her cage. Lucy knows exactly what she'd like to make of Ben -- mincemeat.

Cockfighting (#190)

2009-02-20T11:32:00.002-05:00

I was listening to a talk show on the car radio the other day which is something I used to do a lot of, but don’t anymore. As the show went along, I remembered why and will tell you.

It’s because I used to get a lot of ideas from those shows and they’d nag at me until I wrote about them. Some of them turned into columns.

But as many of you know, and most can well imagine, writing is darn hard work. It’s not enough to get ideas by plucking them from the ether or pilfering them from talk shows.

Oh no.

You have to think of words to describe those ideas.

And that ain’t all.

Oh no.

Unless you want a readership snorting in derision, instead of guffawing at well-chosen bon mots, you have to spell those words correctly and use them grammatically. Which, u know, requires, like, thought.

And if you’re doing an emailed column AND duplicating it as a blog post - well - pity da fool. That means formatting each of them differently...and...as fellow techno-dweebs (aren’t you all?) I’m sure you can feel my pain.

So talk radio was out. Too darn much work. Now my car radio’s presets are mostly rock n’ roll on the FM band. And I like it. But sometimes all six stations are either playing a song I hate or in commercials. So I’ll check out my AM dial.

Which is where the talk shows lurk.

So (he typed, after what must be a near record-length preamble) the other day I hated four of the six FM presets and the other two were in commercials, so I punched in AM and got a talk show.

The topic was about 70 people who were arrested in Ontario because they were involved in a cockfighting ring. That’s Ontario, Canada. The Great White North. It’s a long way to Santo Domingo from here. Who knew we had cockfights? Between dueling, beer-addled, Saturday-at-closing-time Lotharios, sure -- but birds?

(For those very few of you who may not know what’s involved in this “sport,” two roosters equipped with razor-edged attachments to their feet, slash each other to ribbons and onlookers bet on which will kill the other. It’s extremely popular in many Central American, South American and Asian countries and, apparently, at least one pocket of Ontario.)

Anyway, the hosts opined, as hosts do. In this case, the hosts were Paul and Carol Mott of CFRB in Toronto. Paul usually wears the black hat of the bad-guy Conservative (kinda like Stephen Colbert is a Fox-worshiping Republican) and Carol is the white-hatted, left-leaning (but nearly-sensible) counterweight. They have a nice, easy rapport and their show must be quite popular because they’ve been doing it in the same time slot for several years.

Most folks called in to express their abhorrence and dismay at the thought of those who took pleasure in watching cocks kill each other, which echoed the thoughts of the hosts who, on this topic at least, were of one mind.

But a couple of callers said, “Who really cares about chickens? If we did, we wouldn’t stack them in crates for long drives in overheated trucks to be killed and eaten.”

Another tried to compare cockfighting with boxing and ultimate fighting but the hosts quickly, and correctly, shot that down by saying people who fought in those contests exercised their free will in deciding to do so - roosters had no such privilege.

And I got to thinking about bullfights and cockfights and dog fights and what’s common in some countries and illegal in others. I thought other things too. Like if I had my druthers I’d only eat free-range chickens, fresh fish and other game caught and killed humanely.

I have no problem with folks who put their distaste for killing animals into a life of vegetarianism. I respect and admire them. I just don’t follow that same path. I believe we were meant to be omnivorous but I also believe we must respect life. Any animal destined to serve us, whether as livestock, food, or companion, is worthy of respect in life and in the manner of its death.

One caller wanted to know if the hosts would be appalled if two cockroaches were put in a tiny arena and fought to the death. If I recall correctly, they said they wouldn’t like that either but it wasn’t as yuckifying as the birds.

And I realized that everybody has a line, a sort of “do not care” line where stuff can happen and not occasion a shrug. Offenses deemed to have crossed that line might warrant anything from a “tsk” to apoplexy.

I’m glad that cockfighting is illegal in Canada and that those people got arrested.

I’m pretty much okay with the cockroaches going at it, though.

More Walking With Benny (#189)

2009-02-12T09:22:00.005-05:00

What follows are three excerpts from my Walking With Benny journal written last winter.

At the time I wrote the following passages, I was feeding bread to ice-bound ducks. I subsequently learned this can do more harm than good - even though I only bought the good stuff - multi-grain. The last excerpt was written the day I stopped.

###

The temperatures are yoyo-ing again. It’s 5C this morning and the several inches of snow of four days ago is now four inches of slush. Walking is a messy, tiring, wet affair and I just might take a pass on this evening’s venture.

Hilary is coming tomorrow and we were hoping to explore a new (to us) conservation area a few miles from here. The trail there is rated “difficult.” I was hoping to try it when the footing didn’t change the rating to “here comes another heart attack.”

The weather people are calling for a slightly cooler temperatures the next couple of days. We’ll see what Thursday brings.

Today brought hungry ducks, about three dozen of them - the number I’d considered normal for most of this winter. Squirrels abounded and there was lots of small bird activity as well. But to tell the truth, I was focused more on getting one more step closer to home.

Speaking of those steps - no - I’d best back up a little bit first.

As anyone familiar with Jack Russell terriers can attest, they have issues. They’re wound a wee bit tighter than most dogs and will “go off” now and then. Usually the going-off simply involves tearing around the house at supersonic speed, bouncing off the furniture all the while furiously mouthing some fuzzy toy or luckless article of clothing.

But sometimes it involves unusual behaviour.

Ben must bite shoveled snow. Every shovelful. When not actively biting the snow as it leaves the shovel, he is actively biting the shovel itself.

He is no longer allowed outside if anyone in the neighbourhood is shoveling snow.

Ben is also distressed by waves. Waves such as one might find at a lake. Ben has to bite each wave as it rolls into his territory. Each and every one.

For hours.

Anyway, so today, a few minutes into our walk, I noticed that Ben was not on point and had not been for the last couple of minutes. The leash was slack and pointed slightly behind me. I peeked and understood immediately.

Each of the steps I was taking with my big, clodhopper winter boots was causing a slight splash in the slush.

Kind of like a wave. Or maybe like a wee shovelful of slush.

Benny was busy biting my wake. And we still had a long way to go. He’d be peeing for a week. (Excessive peeing is the price one pays for eating snow and waves.)

So, periodically, I’d stop. This served two purposes. I could rest briefly (and I needed a few of those this morning) and Ben would get bored with the lack of wave action, start sniffing, and inevitably find something to distract him for a bit.

Nice how things work out sometimes isn’t it?

###

While at Hilary’s yesterday morning, as we chatted over morning tea, (okay, she chatted - I smiled, nodded and made occasional noises) I noted that the birds seemed especially nervous. Normally, the sparrows didn’t react to every movement we made behind glass doors but this morning they were.

A few minutes later we understood why. Something drew our attention to the rearmost part of her yard. A hawk was standing on the snow, with something grasped in its talons. Hilary grabbed the binoculars and said it was a sparrow. She could see the poor, doomed creature’s beak moving. I said the little bird would be in shock and likely felt no pain. As she went to get her camera and I reached for the binoculars, the hawk left with its prey. I wished the sparrow a swift end as both disappeared.

After consulting the bird book, we tentatively identified the hawk as a Northern Harrier.

We were both, I think, appreciative of being witness to this drama and somewhat guilty in that it was our feeder that kept the sparrows nearby. A further reminder that there’s a consequence to every action and results aren’t always as intended.

###

On the way back, as Ben and I passed the pond, the ducks began to clamber upon the ice and waddle their way towards us - hopeful intent obvious in every stoic step.

I muttered and thought “No-no. Go back.” and waved them away with my free hand. Even more of them began to climb out of the water to join the waddle brigade.

“Dumb birds!” I thought and picked up my pace towards the cedars and out of their sight.

Then, with sudden clarity, I saw myself as the ducks saw me.

“Thunderfoot wave wing make food fly.”

Okay, I may have the syntax wrong but the meaning is clear. The arm motion of shooing them back looked the same to them as the one I make when throwing food.

Dumb human.

Of Dogs & Men (And Cats & Women)

2009-01-27T13:32:00.002-05:00

Let’s take a break from tilting at corporate windmills and allow me to share a new, fascinating insight with you folks.

For about a year and a half now, I’ve been spending a few hours a day in Benny’s company. (For newcomers, Benny is a dog, a Jack Russell Terrier.)

I’ve never spent that much time with a dog before. Though I loved the late, much-lamented Gryphon -- the hunka-hunka-burnin’-love Rottweiler -- we didn’t get to spend a lot of time together. For most of his life I was working six or seven days a week. Usually one of the boys walked him and we probably only spent an hour or two a week, one-on-one.

I was more used to spending time with cats. Except for the last few years, I’ve had one or two around for most of my life. While home, there was nearly always one near, sleeping on my lap, rubbing against my ankle, or, in the case of Jean-Claude Kitty, gnawing on my wrist while trying to disembowel my arm. (He had anger issues. Plus he was insane - a challenging combo.)

Now, anybody who spends much time with anything is going to improve his understanding of it. Just stands to reason. So, you can imagine that a highly trained, keenly observant, Professional Writer-type person doing so, would overflow with knowledge in no time.

And thus it has been. From studying Ben, and observing the behaviour of the many other dogs we come into contact with on our walks - I have learned a great deal about canines, including one Stunning Truth:

They’re just like guys.

There’s a corollary to this Stunning Truth too:

Women are just like cats.

It’s true.

Like guys, dogs are without guile. If they see something they want, like a trespassing squirrel or a piece of cheese, they try to get it. If they can’t get it, they’ll bark and/or whine for someone to get it for them. They will stare fixedly at the object of their desire. There is no mistaking their intent.

Like when guys see a Corvette convertible or a Kate Winslet look-a-like.

Whatever it is cats have on their minds, they will stare at you, meow, and expect you to figure out what they want. Like women, the hints they drop are obscure.

Let’s say a woman isn’t feeling tip-top. She’ll emit a small sigh, fully expecting a guy to notice and follow up on it - even if a game’s on. Similarly, an indisposed kitty will slip quietly into a closet when no one’s around and barf into a shoe. A dog however, will barf wherever he happens to be when the barfy feeling comes and a guy will make sure that everyone within bellowing range knows he’s coming down with something.

Like guys, dogs are fascinated with their own, and others’ naughty bits. They just use different organs to express this fascination - mostly.

It’s perfectly fine for dogs to shove their noses into another dog’s crotch. Men probably enjoyed doing that with women too, way back when. But we gradually became more civilized when women started whacking us on the nose with a rolled-up stone tablet. Naturally, this led to a loss of sense of smell and we were forced to content ourselves with ogling.

Now, consider the concept of guilt. When a dog does something wrong, one glance at his face is all it takes to know there’s a shredded hat somewhere. Likewise, women can look at a man and somehow ascertain that he’s had four beers, half a pizza and a bag of Cheezits when supper’s right around the corner.

Cats and women don’t have a guilty look because they never do anything wrong.

Of course there are some, few similarities between the sexes and between canines and felines. For instance, we all love being petted. But even within this shared sphere of interest, there are stark differences.

Rub a dog’s (or a guy’s) head and then his flank in quick succession and before you can say, “Spot’s your uncle,” he’ll be on his back, offering his belly for some of that action.

Just try to go for a cat’s, or a you-know-who’s belly, without 15 minutes of stroking neck, head, ears and back.

They’ll pull a Jean-Claude Kitty on you in half a heartbeat.

Bell Canada Responds! Well, Jasper Does....

2009-01-21T11:59:00.002-05:00

Last week I wrote about an issue I was having with telecommunications giant Bell Canada regarding my late wife’s account. Despite telling me on three separate occasions there was no money owing and the account was closed, they began dunning me for $87.65, eventually siccing a collection agency after me.

If you missed it, you can scroll down to the previous post.

Shortly after the column appeared, longtime reader and fellow moderator at the Absolute Write forums, Lori B, looked up Bell’s contact information online. She then forwarded a link to the blog version of the column and suggested someone there read it. She got a response which she then forwarded to me. This is it:

Hello Lori B,

Thank you for visiting Bell's web site. My name is Jasper and I am pleased to assist you with your request.

I apologize for the inconvenience caused.

Lori, would you mind clarifying your request for me? I will require additional details to be able to assist you further.

Please do reply me back with the account number that you are referring to.

I do apologize for any delay this may cause in addressing your concerns.

We appreciate you using Bell Canada's eContact Centre. Please feel free to contact us again in the future.

Have a great day!

Thank you,

Jasper
Bell Canada eContact Centre

Well, that was encouraging! Jasper sounded like a reasonable fellow. From here, I took the baton from Lori and replied to Jasper myself, reiterating the suggestion that he follow the link and read the post if he wanted clarification. Within hours I received this email:

Hello Frank Baron,

Thank you for your reply. It's Jasper again and I am happy to be of further assistance.

I have reviewed the link provided and I can certainly understand why you have been frustrated and angry with us.

Bell is very concerned about the level of customer service we provide to our customers. It is a very important factor of our business and how we treat you as a customer, matters greatly.

Frank, if you could reply me back with the account number that you are referring to, I will be able to check your records and assist you further.

Your situation is a prime example that we will use as a case study to improve upon our opportunities and our overall customer experience in general. Bell's ongoing commitment is to provide excellence of service and I can assure you we will make every effort to meet your expectations in the future.

I look forward to your return e-mail. We appreciate you using Bell Canada's eContact Centre.

Have a great day!

Thank you,

Jasper
Bell Canada eContact Centre

Having been stung three times previously by eager-to-help customer service reps, I refused to get caught up in Jasper’s enthusiasm. My reply:

Jasper, you can't be of further assistance until you've been of some assistance. So far, all I've gotten from Bell reps are empty words and a collection agency. Hopefully, we can start that assistance process now. The account number is: xxxxxxxxx.

Jasper replied the next day:

Hello Frank Baron,

Thank you for your reply. It's Jasper again and I am happy to be of further assistance.

I appreciate what you are saying and I can understand your concerns.

Frank, our records confirm that we did not receive your last two payments. That is, the payment made on Dec. 3rd, 2008 for $87.65 and prior to that $87.65 on Nov. 4th, 2008.

In order to resolve this issue, you will need to contact your credit card company.

Please be assured that I have forwarded your e-mail directly to our Residential Accounts Receivable Management team for review. A Client Representative will be happy to note your account with the information that you have provided.

I recommend that you please call 1-800-477-9205 as well. For your convenience, their business hours are 8 am to 9 pm Monday to Friday and 9 am to 5 pm on Saturdays.

Your understanding is truly appreciated.

We appreciate you using Bell Canada's eContact Centre. Please feel free to contact us again in the future.

Have a great day!

Thank you,

Jasper
Bell Canada eContact Centre

Well, darn. This wasn’t going all that well. I’m afraid I was a tad cranky when I replied:

Hello Jasper (probably not your real name).

There you go with the "further" assistance thing again. It's really not that abstract a concept. Oh well.

No, you didn't receive those payments because they were waived. They were waived three times - by your company's representatives - because the person who supposedly incurred them died on July 19th.

Died. Dead. Expired. No longer on the planet.

Your company's representatives may call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx. For their convenience - I will be home most of tomorrow (Thursday). If they fail to reach me tomorrow, they may try again Monday as I will be going out of town on Friday for the weekend.

There was a disconcerting, robotic aspect to Jasper’s response:

Hello Frank Baron,

Thank you for your reply. It's Jasper again and I am happy to be of further assistance.

Frank, I have made a note on your account with the information that you have provided.

Please be assured that I have forwarded your e-mail directly to our Residential Accounts Receivable Management team for review again. A Client Representative will be happy to note your account with the information that you have provided.

We appreciate you using Bell Canada's eContact Centre. Please feel free to contact us again in the future.

Have a great day!

Thank you,

Jasper
Bell Canada eContact Centre

There was no call before the weekend and none after I returned. Sadly, I wrote Jasper one more time a couple of days ago:

Well, Jasper my friend, it appears that none of the Client Representatives of your Residential Accounts Receivable Management team have seen fit to contact me.

It appears that they, unlike you, are not happy to be of further assistance.

You know, I hate to sing the same old, tired refrain but you (and I use the collective term here, Jasper) folks might improve customer relations if you were to actually be of some, initial assistance before leaping right into the "further" part of the program. You know the old saying: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In order to get somewhere, you need to actually begin the going - if you catch my drift.

Kind regards,

Frank Baron

Equally sad, I like to think, was Jasper’s final response:

Hello Frank Baron,

Thank you for your reply. It's Jasper again and I am happy to be of further assistance.

Frank, I regret that this situation appears to be unresolved and I apologize that we have not met your expectations.

I want to assure you that we are continually taking steps to improve your customer experience.

We appreciate you using Bell Canada's eContact Centre. Please feel free to contact us again in the future.

Have a great day!

Thank you,

Jasper
Bell Canada eContact Centre

Well, I don’t think I’ll contact Jasper again. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect there’s no such person. Or rather, there’s a horde of them, Jaspers #1 through #10,000, diligently helping people further.

But apparently there’s nobody capable of helping in the first place.

An Open Letter To Bell Canada

2009-01-12T10:52:00.003-05:00

Dear Bell Canada,

I am writing this letter and posting it on the internet in the hopes that an employee or two of yours will come across and read it. Even though times are tough, I know you still have many, many thousands of employees, so the chances are decent one of them will find it eventually and perhaps draw it to the attention of Somebody who works in the Appropriate Department.

I’d call you on that device your namesake invented but...well...lemme s’plain.

In July of 2008 my wife died suddenly. At the time of her death we were living apart but as next of kin, I of course had to take care of her affairs. Unlike me, who only utilizes your services for my home phone (and have since the early 1970s) my wife had her home phone, her cell phone and her satellite television all provided by your company.

She, of course, had no further need for these services once she passed away. In August, I brought a copy of her death certificate to one of your service centres and a kind young woman there tap-danced through your voice mail system and eventually put me through to a Person In Charge. The PIC expressed her sympathy, noted that payments were up to date and promised any further charges would be waived. She asked that I return the satellite receiver in specific packaging which would be sent to me.

A couple of weeks later, I did just that and crossed off another in the seemingly-endless list of things to do following a person’s death.

Sometime in October, the first dunning letter arrived.

Your company wanted $87.65. The bill didn’t say what for, but the account number was different from my own, so I presumed it was to do with my late wife’s. I ignored it, thinking there was probably a lag in communications between the Department of Receiving Returned Satellite Receivers and They Who Send Bills.

In November, I got another letter which was now rather urgently demanding that $87.65, still however, without specifying exactly what it was for. This time, manfully, I waded through your voice mail system myself. Within a mere 15 minutes of listening to recordings, button pushing and department shuffling, I was speaking to yet another Person In Charge. Like the first, she was extremely sympathetic and apologized for the dunning letter. She would take care of it. There was no reason to pay. It was a mistake. Please forgive us.

Graciously, I did so.

Well, darned if I didn’t get another Urgent Notice a couple of weeks later, regretfully informing me that because of my refusal to pay this mere $87.65 for unspecified services, your company would be forced to turn my bill over to a collection agency and well, goshdarnit, if my credit rating went all to heck I only had myself to blame.

I decided to return to the same Bell centre I went to originally. This time, a kind young woman told me that it really wasn’t their job to intervene in situations like this. What, I inquired, was your job? Well, it was to sell cell phones and related services. She really wished she could help me.

I told her I could make her wish come true. She could do the voice mail dance for me and hand me the receiver when she reached a Person In Charge.

She did so and guess what?

No, seriously, guess what?

The PIC apologized profusely for some Nameless Incompetent’s error and promised she would take care of it.

I said Wow! It was like my guru Yogi Berra said about being deja vu all over again! But, hey, it was closing in on Christmas. I dug deep into my well of goodwill towards men, forgave the PIC and the NI and walk out whistling.

The Final Notice was dated Christmas Eve. A nice touch I thought. All those little Bell Canada elves working until the last possible minute to ensure a Merry Christmas for everyone. Call me a sentimental old fool but I found myself dabbing a tear.

This time I looked very closely at the bill. It was confusing. It said as of Dec. 3rd, there was a balance owing of $87.65. Directly below that, also dated Dec. 3rd, was a credit of $87.65. And below THAT, was an amount due of - yep - $87.65.

As my high school teacher, the sainted Mr. Elliot could attest, my mathematical skills are somewhat rudimentary. But it sure looked to me like the bill was saying $87.65 minus $87.65 = $87.65.

Yesterday, I got my first letter from the collection agency you hired, Total Credit Recovery Ltd. out of Laval Quebec. I suppose you know what they wanted. I considered calling them. They provided a helpful toll-free number just like you folks do. Somehow, though, I bet I if I call their number a human being will answer.

But I decided to write this letter instead and propose a solution to this ongoing problem.

My wife was cremated and her ashes are in a vinyl bag in Son #1's bedroom. I will put $87.65 in that bag. All you have to do is send a representative to my house, convince me why I owe that money and they can help themselves to it.

Then maybe we can all rest in peace.

Kind regards,

Frank Baron

Tracks In The Snow (#185)

2008-12-31T11:41:00.002-05:00

The other day, I was washing dishes and looking out the window into the backyard. We own a dishwasher but it broke about 10 or 12 years ago. At first I couldn’t afford to fix it or buy a new one, and then I could, but other priorities kept/keep rearing their heads so...we keep doing them by hand.

Actually, I kind of enjoy it. Busywork occupies the body while freeing the mind. About the only time it’s necessary to focus is when pain or pink soap suds tell me to be more careful with the knives.

I was looking at the snow-covered yard and trying to identify the various tracks which criss-crossed it. The rabbit’s were easy, as were the squirrel’s and of course, Benny’s were everywhere. On the shed roof were what might have been a cat’s or a raccoon’s. Those tracks were older and a slight melt and re-freeze had distorted their shape. Plus, to tell you true, the kitchen window could be cleaner. And further to the truth-telling thing, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.

I got to thinking about tracks and leaving marks and how Spring would obliterate those outside my window. But for a few weeks at least, after every snowfall, my yard would be an historical testament to critters’ activities.

Which, I suppose, is why some of us write, some of us paint, some of us play music, some of us build bridges and most of us have children: we want to leave a legacy, our mark.

Now, this internet thing, and more specifically, blogs, have made it easy for people to leave their marks. As long as the net exists, so will the tracks of many millions of people.

I think everyone with access to a computer should have a blog. It doesn’t matter if you’re not gifted at rearranging the alphabet. It doesn’t matter if your mother is the only one who reads it now. What matters is telling your story, leaving your tracks. Someone, somewhere, sometime, will come across, and note them.

Right now, my sons have very little interest in what I write. It’s understandable. At their age, I wasn’t all that interested in what my father did either.

But I have a feeling that sometime after I’m gone, they’ll become curious about the marks I left behind and may even enjoy following my trail.

Your kids might too. And theirs. And so on.

And it’s cheaper and easier than building a bridge.

###

What could be better than enjoying good health and peace of mind?

I’ll tell you.

Nothing.

So, I wish health and peace of mind for you and yours in 2009. Happy New Year from me and Ben.

A Christmas Gift For You (#184)

2008-12-24T12:12:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I started working on a seasonal column. It was a wish list chock-full of earnest pleasantries. I stopped at the mid-way point to continue writing it this morning.

Then, last night while watching Letterman, I changed my mind. Lemme s’plain why.

Along about 1972 I bought a Christmas album. It was a reissue of a 1963 release called A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector. It featured songs by acts that Spector and his trademarked “wall of sound” had made famous: Darlene Love, the Ronettes, the Crystals and others. I was a huge fan of those girl groups of the early 60s and the album was a big hit at parties with its rockin’ take on Christmas classics as well as some new tunes.

The very first CD I ever bought (before, in fact, I even owned a CD player) was a boxed set of Spector-produced tunes called Back To Mono. I was delighted to find that along with dozens of famous songs by the Righteous Brothers, Ike and Tina Turner and many others, was a CD version of the Christmas album.

My favourite tune on the album was one by Darlene Love called Christmas (Baby Please Come Home). For the last several years, Letterman has had Love on his Christmas show, usually closing it by singing that song.

Last night I was privileged to see and hear her do it again. The woman defies time. She just gets better and better. Now, through the magic of computers and YouTube, we can all enjoy it.

So here’s my revised Christmas wish:

I wish you’d all turn up your speakers’ volume to Very Loud and let your spirits be lifted by the joyful sound of human voices raised in song.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everybody.

Walking In The Dark (#183)

2008-12-11T13:11:00.004-05:00

We observe Daylight Saving Time where I live which means turning the clocks back an hour in fall and forward an hour in spring. Last month we turned the clocks back. For many years, this day vied with Christmas as my favourite. I could sleep an extra hour! Of course, it never worked out that way. I’d stay up an extra hour instead.

Turning the clocks back favours morning people. The extra light is noticeable only to early risers. For the rest of us, the sun is setting an hour earlier. At this time of year, that means around 5:00 pm.

For the last several months, I’ve been walking Benny in the early evening, before dinner. More often than not, those walks were during that special time of day when the western sun’s angle added golden tones to the greens of spring and summer and highlighted the multi-coloured facets of autumn. It was a terrific time of day to take photographs and simply enjoy the surroundings.

This year, I was not looking forward to turning the clocks back. I’m a napper. I need to conk out for 40-60 minutes most afternoons. I blame my Dad. He was one too. Somehow though, my five siblings were spared this minor family curse.

Anyhow, my usual nap time is from about 5 pm to 6. Even before the clocks were turned back, the latter half of our walks were happening in dusk. Now, with it, it would be pitch dark.

That first evening after the time change, my thoughts matched the surrounding gloom. It was a cloudy night so there was no help from moon or stars. I could see just well enough to avoid a misstep. It was difficult to keep Ben in view, so for the most part, we stayed on the paved portion of the path.

As I did some mental math, trying to figure out when it would be light again at this time of day, I listened to the burbling of the nearby creek. Actually, it wasn’t all that nearby - probably more like 50 or 60 feet. I didn’t recall hearing it from this particular part of our route before.

Then I became aware of the night breeze whispering through tall grass and tree branches. It sounded like distant surf or the sighing exhalations of a sleeping giant. As we approached the southernmost part of the walk, the hum of highway traffic underlaid the songs of the creek and the wind.

And I began to realize anew what I’d forgotten during the longer days of Spring, Summer and Autumn: the charms of walking in the dark.

My hearing was more acute in order to compensate for reduced vision. In a very real sense, as one’s field of view diminishes, the world shrinks. Because there’s nothing much to distract me or occupy my senses, it’s easy for my attention to drift inward. In some respects, it’s like walking in a bubble. I can examine thoughts without interruption. Encounters with other walkers, unlike the other months of the year, are rare. My daydreams, encouraged by the surrounding dark, become more fanciful.

But some nights aren’t dark at all. When the sky is clear, the moon is full and snow blankets the ground, it’s quite bright out. Yet the brightness is much different from that of daylight. What it lacks in warmth it makes up for in magic. Shadows abound. Homely, barren scrub trees are lent a ghostly beauty. Snow, ice and running water have a silvery sparkle quite different from the golden one of the sun.

But I’d be remiss if I left you folks with the impression that these evening forays were all soft-focus, romantic wonder.

It’s often really frickin’ cold out there and the footing can be treacherous. Walking, head down, into wind-whipped freezing sleet while trying to stay upright on ice isn’t particularly fun. Especially when you have to look around every 30 seconds to try to keep tabs on a small, four-legged perpetual motion machine. (Who happens to be the reason you’re out there in the first place.)

That’s when having a wee drop of belly-warmer in a small flask can come in handy. The small, inner glow of warmth, illusory or not, takes a bit of the sting out of winter’s bite.

And, like the guy who hits his head against a wall because it feels so good when he stops - arriving back at a warm house, cheeks burning and hands numb - is a pleasure worthy of the pain it took to get there.

From the winter solstice (Dec.21st) onward, the days will grow slightly longer. By March, Ben and I will be walking in the light again. And I’ll appreciate it, if only for its promise of warmer days to come.

Until then, I’ll bundle up and enjoy walking on a winter’s night.

Mostly.

David Letterman, Nicole Kidman & Plastic Surgery - Oh My!

2008-11-26T13:17:00.002-05:00

A few months ago, after a several-year absence, I started watching the Late Show with David Letterman again. I’ve watched Dave since his earliest days on NBC over three decades ago. I stopped for a while because I wasn’t really enjoying him or the show anymore. He seemed bitter, cynical and bored.

If you felt the same way, try giving him another shot. He’s mellowed since becoming a father five years ago. He’s having fun again and it shows. The cynicism has been tempered and he’s almost - dare I say it? - warm.

Anyhow, the other night he had Nicole Kidman on. I’d always considered her a very pretty woman and a good actress who wasn’t bright enough to avoid marrying Tom Cruise. Well, she might still be a good actress but I don’t think she’s all that pretty anymore. And apparently her IQ hasn’t climbed any because it seems she’s joined the ranks of those Hollywood types who’ve done Something Wrong to their face. Her skin is too darn tight. She appears to be in the early stages of Joan Rivers-itis.

Dave of course, gentleman that he is, extolled her beauty several times and if you didn’t know him, you’d take him at his word. But as a longtime Dave watcher I can tell you with some degree of confidence that he was as taken aback as I was.

Although not as drastic yet (after all, she’s younger) Ms Kidman seems to have followed in the footsteps of Dolly (The Joker) Parton, Mary Tyler Moore and a host of others who have done appalling things to their facial features.

I Googled “nicole kidman plastic surgery” and got a bunch of hits. One of which led me to a site called awfulplasticsurgery.com.

Holy crap.

That’s one scary site. Don’t go there. I mean, we all know about Michael Jackson but believe it or not - there’s worse.

And mostly these abominations are done in an attempt to preserve some vestige of youthful beauty. It’s bad enough when half the women in Hollywood have plastic cantaloupes attached to their chests but now a bunch of them also have swollen lips and drum-tight facial skin.

I blame Angelina Jolie. Seemingly, every other woman in the entertainment racket wants to be like her: huge pouty lips and a skinny frame except for chest melons.

But in a few years she’s going to start looking more “mature.” Will she go the botox/surgery/liposuction route, you think? I hope not but won’t be surprised if she does.

Add unethical plastic surgeons to the blame list. They exploit people with poor self-esteem and feed their insecurities. They betray their Hippocratic oath. They are doing harm.

Some of you know I’ve had a bit of thing for Susan Sarandon since 1970. It’s no big deal really. A few pictures on the walls. Pillow cases with her likeness. A couple of death threats to that Tim Robbins guy. A restraining order or two.

Anyhow, she’s a woman in the public eye who is aging gracefully and naturally. Susie (close, personal friends can call her that) has lines and wrinkles but still looks fabulous.

Remember Jessica Tandy? She was a lovely woman throughout her long life, no less so at 84 than she was at 24, 44, or 64. A hundred wrinkles couldn’t detract from her beauty.

I’ve got one more group of people to blame - fathers. A father’s job is to convince his daughter that she’s beautiful and will always remain so. Fathers need to take the Nicole Kidmans of the world aside and give them a shake. Make them face reality:

You were born beautiful. That’s a gift. So is a long, healthy life. But that life leaves marks. The ones that matter are those tracked upon your soul, not your face. Leave them be.

But I gotta confess I’m glad this father had sons. I bet Dave is too.

Some Summer/Fall Photos

2008-11-20T14:24:00.003-05:00

I didn't take nearly as many photographs this year as in years past. Mostly because Hilary is at least as good a photographer and has a better camera. So I ceded a lot of that business to her. (You can see many of the delightful results at her blog.)

I did take a few though. Here's some of the ones I liked. (You can click on each photo to see them enlarged. Then hit your back button to return to the post.)

Benny waits on the dock for me to come play with those long fishing sticks again.

Nearly the same perspective on a different day. Son #1, sitting in the back of one of the boats, tries to keep sight of his float against the gathering gloom.

Back at home, the field and trees look freshly washed after a passing summer storm.

Autumn has settled in. The proud gold of still-robust leaves is dwindling into a resigned brown. But the sumacs' splashes of red defy winter's onset.

Ben checks on my whereabouts as we walk along a leaf-strewn path.

Bushes, weeds and trees gather golden light from the setting sun.

A peek inside the south cedar grove during that magical twilight time.

The field's tallest tree is lit from below by the sun's fading fire.

Barack Obamania (#180)

2008-11-05T01:37:00.006-05:00

I used to be a political junkie - an American political junkie - which, as a toque-wearing Canuck should’ve fostered at least a hint of shame but didn’t. I was young and idealistic in the late 60s and early 70s. Like most young folks, I leaned left politically. I was hoping for a McGovern miracle. Got Watergate. As one of my favourite writers* of the day would say: “And so it goes.”

In retrospect, that’s probably when the hazy veil of peace/love/dope began to part, revealing that scourge of young people everywhere and everywhen – reality. Ouch. Time to grow up. There isn’t always a happy ending. A smart person isn’t necessarily an ethical one. (That one stung.) Anyway, I grew up and as I did, I grew away from American politics. When the world didn’t end with Reagan’s election, I figured I could safely step back.

Flash forward a generation-plus. Barack Obama is facing off against John McCain. Black vs white. Ok. Make that tan vs florid. I don’t much care but Son #1 is captivated. Early on, he becomes a rabid Obama acolyte. He loudly, and often, berates me for my jaded indifference. He forgets, or doesn’t care, that I was around for Beatlemania and Trudeaumania. Barack Obamania is moderately interesting, but in a been-there, done-that kind of a way.

When Sarah Palin is announced as McCain’s running mate, I thought it a masterstroke. With Hillary’s reluctant, resentful release of her electoral reins, I thought Palin would appeal to disaffected Clintonites. Then I heard her speak and knew Obama’s coronation was assured.

Tonight was the election. I tuned in to the Comedy Channel’s broadcast at 10, being a Stephen Colbert fan. (I can tolerate Jon Stewart if I read the paper while he’s talking.)

By then, on account of Son #1 running downstairs every 1.3 minutes to announce CNN’s latest incantation, I knew which way the wind was blowing. Obama was going to be President elect of the United States of America. It was confirmed around 11 o’clock. Which is when I really begin to focus on what I am seeing on my television.

I see a humble, tired, and very gracious John McCain offering congratulations and cooperation to Barack Obama.

Then I see Obama and listen to him for the first time.

Oh yeah. This guy’s got It. He can move mountains with his voice alone. I envision a second, milk-chocolatey, American Camelot. Michelle projects intelligence, grace and power. Both of them, husband and wife, put me in mind of cats. They are lithe and sleek. They kiss and entwine fingers after his soaring acceptance speech and I read her lips saying “I love you” and I can almost hear them both purr. I realize I’ve been spellbound. Like a majority of Americans and idealistic people from around the world - I recognize the magic that is his. That is theirs.

And I wonder. I wonder if maybe this skinny guy from Illinois can make the same kind of impression on his people as that other skinny guy from Illinois did. Obama himself drew that Lincolnesque comparison.

He can certainly move a crowd. He projects and instills an evangelical fervor. The camera is forever zooming in on tear-stained, chanting faces. Just like the ones I remember from those Beatles’ concerts and those Trudeau appearances.

Obama stops speaking and the next several minutes are filled with a slow procession of running mates and extended family onto the stage. Hugs and kisses abound. Black embraces white and vice versa and the symbolism fairly shouts. I become aware of the music and focus, for the first time, on the production aspects of what I’m experiencing.

I’m particularly struck by the music. It is a seemingly endless series of crescendos - rising and swelling in majestic waves - buoying the emotions of the crowd.

It is powerful. I realize this is a man who has mastered media. Or his handlers have. Doesn’t matter really. He is a force.

I’m a lucky guy. I live in interesting times.

And I think American politics have become intriguing again.

###

*Kurt Vonnegut. But you knew that.

Singing Trees (#179)

2008-10-23T12:32:00.001-04:00

In the north cedar grove there’s a tree which is leaning against its neighbour, a fellow cedar. They’re both tall, about 50-plus feet, healthy, and slender -- though fortunately for the tilting one, its supportive neighbour is somewhat thicker.

I became aware of them on a windy day because sound is created when their trunks and branches rub together. Sometimes it sounds like a grunt, sometimes a moan, sometimes a squeak. I suppose lots of factors affect the tones: wind speed, the dryness/dampness of the bark, the temperature.

This morning was the first autumn day that offered a hint of the season to come – a fierce north wind and plummeting temperatures arrived hard on the heels of an overnight rain. The predicted high was 5C (41F) and the current temperature was 3C (37F).

I rooted around in my closet and donned my camo jacket for the first time in a few months. Was pleased to find a small bottle with a sip’s worth of belly warmer in one pocket. Slightly less pleased to find dozens of bits of crumbled peanut shells in the other. There was also a glove in each, though I likely wouldn’t need them.

By the time Ben and I got to the corner, 90 seconds into our walk, I was fishing around for those gloves. The wind whipped leaves into a frenzied blur of gold, red and orange. Ben was mesmerized. There were too many, moving too quickly. He couldn’t isolate a target.

My eyes teared constantly until we got to the shelter of the grove. I paused there to wipe them and my glasses. That’s when I heard it.

The two cedars were singing. It was high-pitched, nearly flute-like, and oddly familiar. Oddly, because although I’d heard many such leaning trees and rubbing limbs over the years, they tended to have a repetitious, one or two-note sound.

Today’s tones were not like that at all. There were some sharp, staccato notes and some that held longer. I was nearly positive that I had never heard trees making sounds that were so musical. Yet, it was familiar.

As you’re well aware of by now, Benny’s strong suit is not patience. He’d spent two whole minutes exploring the immediate area while I was paused and now it was time to move along.

I don’t believe I’ve mentioned the technique he uses to get my attention when he decides I’ve lingered in one place for a nanosecond longer than he thinks is prudent.

He runs full tilt towards me - could be from any direction - leaps, turns his body to the side and slams into me with all four paws before bouncing off, landing upright and prancing away.

If I don’t get the hint immediately, it’s obviously because he caromed off the wrong part of my body. So he tries it again from another direction. The worst ones are from the front when I’m gazing upward at birds. Luckily, I’ve had all the children I want and a higher voice is sort of natural when a guy gets old.

Wiping futilely at the muddy paw prints on my jeans, I acquiesced to his suggestion and moved along.

I soon became absorbed in looking for birds and watching squirrels and catching glimpses of salmon and forgot about the song until we re-arrived at the grove on the homeward leg of our walk.

Daring to test Ben’s patience yet again, I stopped for a moment to listen while imbibing a wee drop of belly warmer.

Suddenly, it clicked. I knew where I’d heard similar music.

Of all things, the intermittent, flutey sighing, up and down the scale, sounded like the calls of whales. There was a distinct similarity to the haunting, plaintive sounds I’d heard countless times on television.

I had about 20 seconds to listen and savour the realization before Ben literally kick-started me back towards food and warmth. As we walked, the song fading behind with every step, I mused about long-lived, majestic giants of land and sea and Nature’s little miracles.

(Some Of) Benny's Eccentricities

2008-10-16T12:35:00.002-04:00

Near the beginning of my book (which I hardly mention anymore even though Christmas is coming and it still makes for a spiffy gift) I discuss the importance of learning to think like a fish.

Learning to think like something different from yourself is the key to understanding any living creature and if you want to catch, raise, or co-exist with one, it helps greatly to understand it. Luckily, fish aren’t all that clever and it only took me a few decades to figure them out. Well, to mostly figure them out. In a way.

Regular readers know I am a devout disciple of Yogi Berra and my doorway to understanding was via his wise counsel: You can observe a lot just by watching. (By the way, none of this accrued wisdom applies to women. They remain unfathomable despite a lifetime of observation.)

For the last year or so, I’ve been watching Benny pretty closely and I’ve arrived at a deeper understanding of dogs in general and insane Jack Russell Terriers in particular. Perhaps “insane” is too strong a word. Let’s go with “eccentric.”

Are you familiar with the TV show Monk? For those who aren’t, Monk (brilliantly portrayed by Tony Shalhoub) is a detective who is plagued by an extreme case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. If something is unclean, untidy, uneven, or even a micron out of place, he becomes very upset until it is made right.

Otherwise he’s pretty normal.

Ben is like that. He’s a happy-go-lucky, friendly pup as long as things are normal - by his definition. He only barks at things that are Wrong and I am learning, via him, about more and more Wrong things.

People who don’t do what they’re supposed to do are Wrong. For instance, this may include people who are standing still when Ben thinks they should be walking. Let’s say someone is ahead of us while we’re walking. No problem. But suppose that person stops to tie a shoelace. Ben may well decide that a previously-walking-now-bent-over person is Wrong and deserves a good barking.

People riding bicycles used to be Wrong until he saw enough of them to accept their existence with a token chase. However, people standing beside, or walking a bicycle, are obviously Very Wrong. They are not doing what people with bicycles are supposed to do and it’s his job to alert those nearby to that fact.

Statues are all pretty much Wrong because they’re very stiff people who aren’t even displaying the minimum movement required by tying shoelaces. Plus, I suspect they don’t smell right either.

He decided early on that shovels are Wrong. Son #1 often exercises Ben in the backyard by standing in the centre of the yard while holding a shovel and pointing it at him. Ben goes into a frenzy of running in circles around the offending shovel. #1 need only pivot slowly, shovel extended, while Benny tears up the turf around him until exhausted. It’s kind of like operating one of those remote-controlled planes - just point and watch it go until it crashes.

On our walks, we often meet other folks walking their pooches. In most instances, this is a happy occurrence for Ben as he loves his fellow canines. But every once in a while he would growl and/or bark at an inoffensive mutt who just wanted a sniff or two. I was puzzled as such behaviour was quite unlike him.

Then, after the fourth or fifth time it happened, I realized that each of the dogs that set him off was wearing one of those Halti collars that wrap around the nose instead of the neck. Obviously Haltis are Wrong. At least now I can explain to some folks why he’s being an idiot: “Yeah, sorry. But it’s your own fault. You got the wrong collar for your dog.”

Eventually, I’m pretty sure he’ll figure out that most of these things are actually okay. For quite some time he considered a child on all fours, or sitting on the ground, to be another dog. He would prance around, forepaws down and bum high, barking and nipping at loose clothes, encouraging this new “puppy” to play. That was a nerve-wracking few months I’ll tell ya. (Especially for new Mom, Erin.) We still need to keep a close watch on him when very wee ones are about, lest he regress.

But most of his eccentricities are benign and once understood, quite easily accepted. At his core, he’s a regular pooch, wanting only to be with his people (his pack), play, eat, sleep, and roll in rotting flesh, preferably fish. If, from time to time, he also indulges in somewhat eccentric behaviour, well really, what’s the harm?

Some might even say, if they saw his keeper standing on one leg while talking to a Great Blue Heron or picking up wayward snails off the sidewalk, he comes by it honestly.

If they said it to my face though, I’d probably have to bark at them.

###

Most of you who visit my blog (as opposed to reading the emailed version) are also regular visitors to Hilary's. However, if you're not, and would like to see videos and pictures of Ben (as well as other terrific photos and commentary) please pay her a visit. You'll find two recent videos of Ben on her October 5th and 15th posts at: http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/

Late Summer Warfare

2008-09-22T12:41:00.003-04:00

Everywhere there are signs summer is winding down. Trees are shedding leaves. Some flowers are fading. The apples are ripening. The salmon are spawning. And fruit flies have invaded my house.

The pesky critters are everywhere. As soon as I find and remove the offending peaches or onions that harbour the mini buzzards, they discover a new place to breed. Before I know it, a trip to the kitchen requires a mosquito net.

Over the years, I’ve learned a few battle tactics. First among them was laying traps. I would slice a juicy peach and place pieces in plastic bags. Every few hours, I’d sneak up on the bags, slam them shut and tie them closed. Sometimes, if feeling particularly vengeful, I’d blast the inside of the bag with an insecticide first. (Be careful if you decide to use this variation as there could be collateral damage to nearby foodstuffs, plates, children, etc.)

This was effective as long as I remembered where I put each trap and checked them periodically. Unfortunately, every once in a while I’d forget about one and it would become the scene of a fruit fly orgy, giving birth to a fresh host of the ravenous beasts.

A few years ago, I learned of the vinegar method: Pour some wine, raspberry or cider vinegar (malt and white will work too, just not as well) into a narrow-necked bottle to a depth of an inch or two. Make a funnel of paper or light cardboard and insert it into the top of the bottle so that it fits snugly.

The fruit flies, attracted by the vinegar, enter the bottle via the funnel but can’t find their way back out again. (They're way dumber than the average middle-aged Canadian male. We ask for directions.) Eventually, the tiny winged demons become vinegarized sediment. And it looks good on them.

However, despite two such traps in my kitchen, I came back from a few days away to find they’re still reproducing like airborne bunnies.

Desperate, I turned to a technoguy’s best friend, Google.

And there, way down the list of suggestions, was one that made real sense and, as a bonus, sounded like fun: vacuum the heck out of ‘em!

So for the last couple of days, my vacuum cleaner has resided in the middle of my kitchen floor. Every time I make tea, or dinner, or grab something from the fridge, I vacuum around my vinegar traps where the wee terrors hang out. (Must confess I feel like I’m starring in an Arnie movie, waving around a flamethrower or submachine gun. Or a “suckmachine” gun. Haha. That’s funny.)

It works like magic. Hasta la vista babies! The tiny flying farts are no match for 12 amps of revved-up, reverse-turbined suction.

Unfortunately, neither are the paper funnels on the traps. I sucked up a couple of them, releasing a few POWs in the process but covered the tops quickly and made new funnels.

Oh, the war’s not over yet. Not by a long shot. I must remain vigilant. Thus far, all I’ve won is a few skirmishes. The enemy is resilient and resourceful and has earned my respect. It only takes two survivors and a few days and you’re back to battling brigades of the buggers. But I’ve definitely stemmed the tide. So far.

Looking forward to winter though, when I can safely buy some fruit again. And quit tripping over the stupid vacuum cleaner.

But Is It Fishin'? (#176)

2008-09-01T14:07:00.003-04:00

As most of you know, and are likely darn sick of hearing, I live in a small town, in a house bordering a field and some woodland. A creek runs through the area and empties into Lake Ontario, a mile or two away. The creek hosts annual migrations of rainbow trout (steelhead) in the spring and brown trout and salmon in the fall.

What follows is another excerpt from the journal I’m writing about my walks in that area with Benny. Forgive me if there’s a reference or two that presupposes a knowledge of material you haven’t read. Maybe one day you will - if I ever finish the darn thing and get it published.

The salmon run is on. The weather is mid-summer hot n’ hazy, belying the calendar. This is Labour Day, a holiday, a day in which people who are usually at work on a Monday, don’t have to work on this particular Monday. They can do other things - recreational things.

Did I mention the salmon run was on?

You’re clever. You can do the math.

Uh-huh. My creek is overrun with guys in armpit-high boots and wearing vests with 97 overflowing pockets. Most of them wield long fly, or steelhead rods from 9 to 13 feet.

Not only that, but on weekends (when I’m usually safe at Hilary’s) and holidays (when I’m often not) it’s also overrun with preteens flinging Pocket Fishermen and families of five toting picnic baskets and lawn chairs among their gear; most of whom have never fished in their lives but want a crack at 25 pounds of near-fresh, not to mention near-free, salmon.

Now add the probability of there being a dead fish or three in the vicinity, rotting nicely in the hot sun.

Finally, factor in a dash of Benny, The Jack Russell Terror, to the above fruitcake smorgasbord and you’ll surely understand that this morning’s walk posed something of a challenge.

The first of which was trying to keep him away from the creek without having to leash him.

For the most part, this was pretty easily done. A good portion of the paved path parallels the creek but doesn’t come all that close to it. And this summer’s still-lush foliage blocked his, and my view of the creek in most places. So, today I made a point of staying on the paved path, away from the creek when we were below the dam. (Most of the salmon were still downstream of the dam.)

The only area of major concern was half-way through the northern cedar grove. The creek bends close to the path there and there’s a nice fish-holding slick, just above and alongside a storm-toppled tree trunk. I knew there’d be at least a couple of guys working that short stretch.

There were six - three on each side of the bank. Six guys fishing a run about 20 feet long and eight wide. From two directions. I called Ben and he came nearly immediately, after a cursory sniff of the closest angler’s boots and a quick pee on a nearby fern. Glad he didn’t reverse that. Good doggie.

Suddenly, I heard one of the six whoop, followed shortly by a thunderous, wet WHAP as a hooked 20-pounder slapped its tail on the surface. I could see at least two lines attached to the “lucky” angler’s line and the other fishermen reeled in frantically, lest they join them.

One more did. This was unlikely to end well.

In my book, this ain’t fishin’. (Hehe. I said “in my book.” Get it? It’s funny because even though I was using the term as a folksy colloquialism, I did write a book. About fishing. Mostly. Oh, nevermind.)

Ben and I continued our walk.

The scene made me grumbly. Fishing + crowds has always = ruining my zen. Fishing is supposed to be a quiet, relaxing pastime, during which one eases into Nature’s own rhythms. It’s not supposed to be one which involves jostling and frayed tempers. That’s the rhythm of a metropolitan subway system.

On the way back, near a long stretch of rapids devoid of both fish and fishermen, Ben and I paused for a bit at the side of the stream. While he nosed around for something interesting, I looked upstream at the tail end of a nice holding pool.

Three young guys, in their late teens or early twenties, were working the lower part of the pool. I couldn’t see the upper part but was certain there were other anglers there as well.

The young lads were tanned and shirtless. One said something and they all laughed. They tossed out their floats in near-unison and I imagined they were wagering on who would catch the first, the biggest, the most – the way I did, and do, when fishing and kibbitzing with friends.

I realized I was being a bit of a twit - a bit of a snobbish twit. Not everyone has the luxury of picking and choosing the ideal times and places to fish. Some only have a day or two here and there, as was the case for me for the better part of 20 years. And if a couple dozen folks have the same chance at the same time - well, it’s no surprise they take advantage of it.

Those young men were having fun. Perhaps they were on the cusp of one of those magically memorable summer days they’d recall and drink to when they were my age. Who was I to say what fishing “should” be?

One size don’t fit all, so what the heck - maybe it is fishin.’

Big Doin's In A Small Town

2008-08-19T14:54:00.004-04:00

I like living in a small town. As proof, I offer the fact that I've lived in one for 22+ years. By choice.

Life here is much more relaxed than in the city but occasionally things can get pretty darn exciting. I'll never forget the opening of the new Canadian Tire store just a couple of years after we moved here.

(For the edification of non-Canuckleheads, Canadian Tire sells everything except food and if you're a guy, you're there a couple of times a week browsing its aisles for wrenches, fishing tackle, plumbing supplies, snow shovels and anything and everything remotely related to motor vehicles. Women, unless unusually mechanically inclined, can get by with a weekly visit. It's a bit like church, only most everyone wears plaid shirts.)

Folks came from miles around to the grand opening. The parking lot was jammed. You've never heard so many "excuse me"s. It was giddyfying.

More recently, in the mid-90s, there was talk of a project dubbed "Valleys 2000." It was a daunting effort: building a nearly 3-kilometer paved, biking/walking path that more-or-less followed the meandering of the local creek. It would be a grand way to usher in the millennium.

Well, what with one thing and another, the town didn't actually get it done until 2004. But it was well worth the wait. It's a pretty spiffy path now and popular with joggers, bikers and dog walkers. They erected a nice information kiosk at the top end of the path, informing us of the local flora and fauna and including a bit of the area's history. They got the brown trout picture wrong and mislabeled a birch tree as a basswood, but all-in-all, it's a pretty nifty kiosk.

Now, this summer, only a few weeks ago, the triangular, corral-type structure pictured below appeared. (You can click the photos to see them enlarged.)

You can imagine the buzz among the locals.

That wasn't all. A few days later, a large section of the field was mowed and eight trees were planted, as evidenced by the picture below. (By the way, the dog pictured is Benny. I have no idea who the chubby guy is.)

I heard that on a Saturday in July, local dignitaries were to gather at the areas mentioned and dedicate them. Unfortunately, I was out of town and missed the pomp and ceremony. But when I returned, I was pleased to see that informative signs had been posted.

In case you have trouble reading it, the sign says "Butterfly Garden." Yep, the corral was built for butterflies. Pretty sure they didn't mean to keep them herded in there though. And the mystery of those eight trees was solved as well.

Yep. A Commemorative Forest. Not sure what was being commemorated but no matter. It's a darn nice sign.

And, as a bonus, now I know exactly how many trees make up a forest.

Later, I walked to the north end of the path. There was yet another sign! This one was right in front of the information kiosk.

Nossir, you just can't beat living in a small town.

Helen

2008-07-27T16:35:00.003-04:00

I don’t have the time, inclination or heart to tell the whole story now. Nor, most likely, would you want to read it. It’s the sort of mundane story that doesn’t make the news, despite what seems to be the requisite ingredients of drama, tragedy and pathos. It’s a story being enacted near you right now.

25 years ago I married a woman named Helen. She was kind and intelligent, tall, slim and lovely. Shortly after, while she was pregnant with our first son, I learned she had a serious drinking problem. The problem persisted over the years, despite several stays in treatment centres, sessions with counselors and a flirtation with AA. Her longest sober period during those 25 years was 18 months, during which stretch she became pregnant with our second child. That 18-month hiatus was broken during the pregnancy.

When we married, Helen was a registered nurse. Five years later, she was driving a cab, the first of several menial jobs. At first, she was a classic binge drinker - staying sober for days, sometimes a couple of weeks - then drinking herself into oblivion for a period of days or weeks. Later, she “managed” her drinking by holding herself to a half-litre of vodka a day. Unless she was celebrating something. Or sad about something. Or the weather changed. Then she’d double her quota.

Gradually, I gave up hope of ever having a more-or-less normal relationship. Ours became functionally dysfunctional. Several years ago we separated in all ways except for living in the same house. She lived in her space. I lived in mine. The boys learned that an unresponsive mother slumped in a chair or on the couch was their norm.

Until a couple of years ago, she managed to work at least several months a year. At that time, she took a leave of absence to help care for her ailing mother. Without the enforced eight-hours per day of sobriety her job provided, she started drinking more often, more heavily.

Last summer she began having seizures when too many hours elapsed between drinks. The boys and I simply could no longer deal with the falls, the blood, the ambulance calls. Her mother had since moved into a nursing home. We insisted that Helen move into her mother’s place a half-hour drive away, near her brothers, and she did.

She entered one more treatment centre in January of this year. Our sons were cautiously optimistic that this time she would emerge healthy and stay that way. But she was drinking again the day after her 3-week stay was over.

Last Saturday she called her brother and asked him to bring her some soft drinks. When he arrived, she was in the bathroom and didn’t respond to his call. He opened the door and found her unresponsive on the floor. Paramedics were called. They worked on her for an hour but she was gone. She was 55.

During much of our marriage, aside from our sons, I couldn’t think of many positives that came from our relationship. All too often, my focus was on the broken promises, the lies, the sense of loss, the worry, the hurt.

But it was Helen who bought Lucy, our parrot, who bonded with me and is a daily delight. And it was Helen, much to my chagrin at the time, who decided to buy a certain Jack Russell Terror and dubbed him Benny.

When healthy (sober) Helen loved to garden. Although she hadn’t worked on our garden in many years, the roses and clematis and lilies she planted 20-some years ago are flourishing during this hot, wet summer. I’ve enjoyed sitting back there this year and wanted to tell her how nice they looked. I meant to tell her when we talked briefly on the phone two days before she died. But I forgot.

So, instead, I clipped three of her beautiful roses and they were cremated with her.

I’ve come to understand that however much pain her drinking inflicted on her loved ones, her own pain ran deeper and darker. She was a good person unable to cope with a terrible problem.

Rest in peace, Helen.

Cribbage & Uncle Walter's Lesson (#174)

2008-07-08T12:33:00.002-04:00

The other day, while looking under the couch for the air pump, Son #1 came across a cribbage board I’d forgotten about. It’s carved in the shape of a trout. A rainbow trout to be precise.

Here’s a picture of it:

As you can plainly see, it’s a very spiffy board. (As you can also plainly see, just as I was about to snap the pic, Benny noticed I was doing Something Interesting and had to investigate.) I have some recollection of receiving the board as a gift but am embarrassed to admit I’ve forgotten from whom. (Maybe I’ll find out when/if they read this.)

I learned to play cribbage as a child by watching my father play with relatives, friends, and the salesmen who visited our furniture store. I played Dad in practice games and he exhibited the same patience he did while fishing. In my opinion, it’s the best two-handed card game in the world.

An early, and fond memory is of whupping my Uncle Walter in a game or two when I was about seven years old. We were playing at my grandparent’s home during one of the regular family get-togethers.

I was pretty excited. We were playing for money -- a nickel a game, a dime a skunk. (To be skunked in cribbage is to lose by more than 30 points.) I’d never played for money before and was pretty nervous. Most likely because I didn’t have a nickel, let alone a whole dime.

It didn’t seem to matter however, as I could do no wrong. If, in one hand, I only had seven points, poor Uncle Walter would only have four. Occasionally, other relatives would pass by to watch and kibbitz.

More than once, Uncle Val would look at Uncle Walter’s cards and say something like, “Why the heck are you keeping those?”

Uncle Walter would shush him and say he knew what he was doing.

I was too focused on my own cards to pay much attention to his. All I knew was that a couple of games later, I was deliriously happy and 10 cents richer.

I had beaten an adult at cribbage!

It took a decade or two for me to come to the realization that Uncle Walter let me win. As the years passed, I would think about that day now and again. I realized that he taught me an extremely important life lesson - that you don’t have to win to be a winner.

Uncle Walter must be in his 80s now. He and Aunt Jan moved to Nova Scotia about 20 years ago and I haven’t seen them since. We email now and again though, and a while ago I reminded him of the story I just told. Finding that spiffy board prompted me to pass the story along.

Thanks Uncle Walter. You’re a good man. I hope to get out to see you some day soon. I’ll be a good sport and give you a chance to win your dime back.

###

Those of you who can’t get enough of Benny stories and pictures really should check out Hilary’s blog regularly. She posts more often than I do and often about things we’ve done together. Recently, she’s told of our trip to the cottage and other adventures, replete with pictures, videos and darn good commentary. Check it out at: http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/

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Here’s a shot of Benny I took a couple of weeks ago at the cottage. After a full day of eating waves and gnawing sticks, he contemplates tomorrow’s mischief.

Little Buzztards (#173)

2008-06-25T12:33:00.003-04:00

For the most part, I’m a nice guy. Ask anybody.

I remove suicidal worms from rainy-day sidewalks and place them on the safety of lawns or dirt. I invite Jehovah’s Witnesses in for a shot of Scotch and am coming around to the idea that Yankee fans might have a right to exist.

See? I’m tolerant as heck. But for the last couple of weeks, on a daily basis, I’ve wantonly ended the life of several critters.

I don’t like mosquitos. At all.

June has been a very rainy month here in southern Ontario. Rain means humidity. Mosquitos love humidity. It energizes them as it enervates us. It seems to give these piranhas of the sky super powers. They can fly faster, farther, with even more malevolent intent.

And they’ve been eating me on my morning and evening walks with Benny. The woodland paths and cedar groves - my favourite areas for walking and loitering - are now no-go zones unless I want to douse myself in repellant.

Now, back in the day, when I used to fish a LOT in mosquito-infested areas, I practically bathed in repellant. This was when you were allowed to buy it in nearly pure, concentrated form - 95% DEET (N,N-Diethyl-meta-toluamide). Then, a few years ago, some lab-coat-wearing non-fisherman decided anything over 25% was hazardous to your health so the government outlawed the strong stuff. (Some of us hoarded a few bottles but don’t tell anyone.)

But back then, I was spending the better part of weeks in bug country. I don’t want to douse myself just for a couple of 30-40-minute walks.

(Oh, and puh-leeze don’t tell me about the repellant properties of a certain skin-care product. Doesn’t work. At least on Canadian skitters. They take one sniff, chortle, tie their bibs around their scrawny little necks and dive in.)

So, I’ve been avoiding the most heavily-infested areas and walking briskly through the so-so ones. But every day I get bitten. Every day I manage to swat a few against some part of my anatomy. Usually after they’ve done the deed of course, so my satisfaction is dimmed somewhat by the fact that the blood I’m splattering is my own.

I’m lucky in a way though. The thousands of bites over five decades have resulted in something of an immunity. I itch for 5-10 minutes after being bitten but that’s usually it. Some folks I know have nasty reactions, a couple even require antihistamines to reduce the swelling.

But just because they now only cause momentary discomfort doesn’t mean I don’t hate the wee beasties.

I remember dozens and dozens of nights when I used to hitchhike all over hell’s half-acre; trying to sleep at the side of some road, scrunched deeply down into my sleeping bag and breathing through a pin-sized hole while voracious skitters circled patiently. They knew I’d fall asleep eventually and loosen my death grip on my breathing hole.

And there were all those nights in cottages, sleep being kept at bay because of the intermittent whine of the tiny vampires as they zoomed past my ears.

I’m pretty sure all Canadians in cottage or camping country have, at one time or another (and in my case, several times) given themselves a concussion by whacking the side of their own head while skitter-swatting in the dark. None of us mind the pain and the stars in our eyes if we obliterate the beast as well. (And sometimes, as a bonus, around the 20th concussion, one can knock oneself right to sleep.)

Oh well. Canadian summers are relatively short. By September Ben and I will be able to reclaim our turf.

By the way, he appears to be supremely untroubled by the little buzztards. Maybe I need to roll in a dead fish now and again.

This & That & Pictures Too (#172)

2008-06-11T12:33:00.003-04:00

A couple of short updates and then some photos:

I’m still getting mail from the Pillow Talk column of several weeks ago and thought I’d update all you folks who took the time to send me your suggestions.

My aged, decrepit pillow still lies, unused, on my bedroom floor next to my dresser. If it had eyes, it would be staring reproachfully. I’ve been trying to adjust to one of those living-foam jobbies. I find it pretty comfy when I sleep on my left side but not so great when on my right. Beats me why that is. Pillows are weird. Can't be me.

Most likely, I’ll eventually get around to getting my old one cleaned and stuffed into some new ticking. I’m stalling though, because I fear it will be Too Different and the magic will be gone forever.

###

Hilary and I revisited the Fishy Feline (#169) and she was still pregnant and still hungry. This time, she didn’t make an appearance until after we’d put away the fishing gear and were about to leave. She was still very, very shy but came out of hiding to gobble down bits of cheese.

Unbeknownst to me, brother Karl went fishing there a couple of weeks ago and made sure she had a feed of fish.

I hope to take a drive down that way again sometime this summer and will check on her.

I will NOT come back with a kitten.

I will NOT come back with a kitten.

I will NOT come back with a kitten.

I hope.

###

This is Benny.

Many of you enjoy reading about his antics. Hilary recently posted an amusing story about his most recent stinky adventure. If you missed it, it includes some pictures and a short, entertaining video. Her site can take a little while to load because she posts a lot of pictures. Be patient. It’s worth it. You can check it out by clicking here or visiting: http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/ and scrolling down to the post called “The Scent of a Puppy.”

###

Now for some recent photos:

I have a fairly large magnolia tree in my front yard and this spring was blessed with a bountiful crop of blossoms. I've taken dozens of photos of them over the years and decided to try a different perspective one rainy day. I like how this one turned out. (You can click all these photos to see a somewhat larger version - then click your browser's back button to return to the post.)

The path goes ever on....

As does the creek....

This small pond is home to ducks, frogs and minnows and is a hunting ground for herons, kingfishers and raccoons.

"What the heck is this next one?" you may well ask. I may well tell below it.

It's one in a series of "proof positive of life after death" pics. The dead tree stump is hosting a riot a new life - all of which, at some molecular level, harbour traces of tree DNA. Or something. Dammit Jim! I'm a writer not a scientist! I just think it's nifty.

I'm a fan of trees, of wood in general. And I love how moisture can add richness and texture to wood as evidenced in the next shot, taken shortly after a rainfall.

Back home again to wrap up with a couple of photos from the garden. First, one of an explosion of poppies. Somewhat like the magnolia, these blossoms are spectacular but fragile and short-lived. One day earlier this week there were over 50 blossoms like this one. It rained hard the next day and there were none.

And finally, three tulips. I just like the colours.

Brothers (#171)

2008-05-27T13:05:00.002-04:00

I was reading a newspaper last night. Yep, despite being a hep guy plugged into the interweb, I still get much of my news via the newspaper.

It was, in fact, the Toronto Sun, my paper of choice, and not solely because it features the incisive, witty, extremely funny writing of that gorgeous and brilliant entertainment columnist, Liz Braun. And I’m probably not saying that just because she reads this.

I was catching up on the international news, still dominated by the horrible natural disasters in Burma and China, when a picture caught my eye.

And held it. And held it. And I found myself returning to that page again and again to look at it.

The photograph was by Andy Wong of the Associated Press. This is it:

(If you’re reading this online you can click the picture to see a larger version.)

The caption said: A young earthquake survivor feeds his baby brother with noodles at a refugee camp in Yongan town, 30 kilometers (19 miles) from Beichuan county in southwest China's Sichuan province, Sunday, May 25, 2008.

I was struck by many things in the photo. Not the least is the focus in the older boy’s eyes. His furrowed brows indicate he is taking his job very seriously. His lips are slightly pursed, his mouth prepared to mimic his little brother’s upcoming gape when he fully accepts the noodles. (I learned long ago, when watching someone feed a baby, to keep my eyes on the feeder, not the baby. It’s hilarious how they contort their mouths with every spoonful. And yes, I know I did it too. Pretty sure it’s one of those autonomic reactions, like knee jerks and hanging up on telemarketers.)

The little brother’s attention appears to be on his hands more than on his brother, or the chopsticks. To me, his distraction is indicative of the confidence and trust he has in his sibling. He can afford to focus elsewhere because he has faith that his brother will look after him.

Could the faceless woman in the background be their mother? I hope so. But something tells me she would be feeding the baby if she was the mom.

The colours in the photo are warm and vibrant, adding much to the gentle beauty of the scene.

If we were to zoom upwards from our view of this peaceful tableau, we’d likely see thousands of people packed into refugee camps. We’d see mile after mile after mile of rubble. We’d see rescuers pulling bodies from the ruins. If we could hear, I’m sure there would be moans from the wounded and wailing from the bereaved. If we could smell - we’d wish we were just about anywhere else.

I’m sure that Mr. Wong’s camera has recorded many photos that would make us recoil in horror. He’s clicked on scenes of near-unimaginable misery. I’m deeply appreciative that he snapped this one. If I had one, it would get my vote for a Pulitzer.

We can’t take over that little boy’s job. We can’t hand-feed those who need it. But most of us can afford a few dollars to help buy more noodles.

Mr. Wong’s picture is a gentle reminder that we are all our brothers’ keepers and that man is never more ennobled than when he is helping others.

Love Among The Flotsam (#170)

2008-05-21T12:07:00.002-04:00

What my sons refer to as “Dad repeating himself” I like to think of as “expanding upon a recurring theme.” Or maybe it’s “expounding.”

Whatever.

The point is I’m a writer, and as such, know a lot of words. I may as well use them. And there’s only so many topics that either interest me enough, or that I know well enough to write about. Which is true of any writer, really. So, the old adage of “write what you know” is true. Baron’s Corollary is “but use different words.”

So, on to yet another story about time and change and perspective....

Near the turnaround point of my evening walk with Ben, on the eastern edge of a cedar grove, there’s a bend in the creek which collects a lot of flotsam. Usually the flotsam is in the form of tree branches and sometimes, after a severe flooding, whole trees.

This particular piece of land is boggy and I largely avoided it throughout winter and early spring. The footing can be treacherous, particularly when snow-covered or muddy.

But it’s been dried out for the last couple of weeks so Ben and I wander that way now and again.

We did so last week on a glorious evening. It was about an hour before sunset, and the light filtering through the trees turned the ferns on the forest floor just about as green as green can be. Pleased that I had remembered the camera, I crouched down to take a couple of pictures. Ben, as is his wont, was somewhere ahead, blazing his own trail.

As I rose to my feet, I heard voices over the usual sounds of the wind in the leaves and the chattering of the nearby rapids. This was a first for this part of the walk which is in a fairly secluded area.

Fearing Ben might be making a nuisance of himself, I hurried toward the sounds.

Well, of course he was. A couple, facing each other while straddling a large log, were contending with a bouncing bundle of Benny on their laps. As I neared them, saying something along the lines of, “I see you’ve met Killer,” I noticed both were young men. And not only were they facing each other while straddling the log, but one also had his thighs astride those of his friend. Both grinned at me as they patted the ever-enthusiastic Benny.

I semi-apologized for Ben’s intrusion but thankfully, like 95% of his assaultees, these boys seemed to enjoy his whirling dervish-like greeting. (If I had an iota of that dog’s charm and chutzpah, I’d rule the world.)

Both boys were about 18 and wore black pants and white dress shirts. Probably students at the Catholic school. One was blond and one was dark and danged if they didn’t make a pretty good-looking couple.

As I called Ben to me and we continued on our way, one of the boys pulled the other’s head onto his shoulder and they hugged.

I live in a small, conservative southern Ontario town. Quite a few residents would be upset if they saw those boys being so affectionate with each other. Probably the majority would be discomfited in some way. Some would be appalled. I suppose that’s why they chose such a normally-secluded spot.

Yet neither lad evidenced embarrassment at being “caught.” Indeed, on the contrary, I may have detected a little extra delight in those smiles.

I’d characterize my own reaction, initially, as mildly disconcerted. I felt somewhat like an intruder but the boys’ relaxed attitude was contagious. And there’s little doubt I’d have felt similarly, to a slightly lesser extent, if I’d come upon a boy and a girl being openly affectionate. At some point in my life, probably my middling-late teens, I’d be “grossed out” if I’d seen them. Somewhere along the way though, my perspective has changed.

But not everybody’s has and many never will. I’m quite sure some people stopped reading this when they learned the couple was two young men. Some continued reading on but with a curled lip. It won’t surprise me if I get a couple of canceled subscriptions.

I don’t care. Life is too short to get into a dither over other people’s business. Those boys could be any of our sons.

Some will say “I don’t care what people do as long as they keep it private.” I’m pretty much in that camp and have been for a long time. But who among us hasn’t been openly affectionate when in the giddy throes of young love? And these lads weren’t exactly posturing in a busy intersection in order to be seen. They had every reason to expect to be unobserved in an out-of-the-way part of a small town.

Son #2, a senior in high school, has informed me that it’s “known” that several kids in his school are gay but he’s never seen any of them kiss or hug each other openly. He says they’d be teased mercilessly by a goodly proportion of the students if they were seen doing so.

So maybe Smalltown Ontario isn’t as nonchalant about gays as I might like to think. But it’s only a matter of time.

40 years ago, when I was their age, 30, 20, heck, even 10 years ago, those boys would have hurriedly separated at Ben’s approach, let alone my own. They probably would have run away. But these kids felt comfortable enough, brave enough, to stay.

Good for them.

The Fishy Feline (#169)

2008-05-08T20:29:00.002-04:00

About 50 years ago, my father took me fishing for the first time to a small mill pond about 40 miles from our home. Brook trout inhabited the pond, sharing it with coarse fish like chub, suckers and sunfish. I proved adept at catching the latter and every once in a while a beautiful, silvery trout danced at the end of my line.

Most every year since, I’ve returned to the pond to try my luck. At first, I’d go with Dad and his friends and my brothers. In more recent times I’ve taken my sons. The fishing fanatic gene seems to have skipped a generation though, so these days I mostly go alone.

The best fishing is in late Spring. When the water warms in summer, algae blooms carpet the surface, making it tough, bordering on impossible, to present any bait or lure.

The mill is over 150 years old and still works, if irregularly. The only place one can fish is from the road directly opposite it, near the spillway which tumbles under the roadside bridge.

To tell you true, the fishing’s been no hang there for quite a few years. I keep going back because I just love the place. Part of the love stems from the happy boyhood memories which were born there. Part of it is the peaceful, idyllic surroundings. The pond nestles in a small vale between hills, like a jewel snuggled between bosoms.

And partly it’s the cats.

Over the decades, several generations of cats have lived in, or under, or beside the mill. They’re all quite feral and almost always, pregnant females. I can only recall one allowing herself to be stroked. For the most part, they keep a wary distance - closing the gap only when they note a bent fishing rod. At that point, they meow for a donation but still rarely venture closer than five or six feet.

I would always oblige, often switching tactics so I could catch a few chub. (For the uninitiated, chub are small, minnow-like fish, of use to humans only as bait for larger fish.) Most of the chub were 3"-4" long, with the occasional behemoth reaching 7"-8".

Yesterday I went to the pond for my first visit of the year. It was a grey, cool day, punctuated by several brief but fierce showers. Usually the mill owner’s dog visits to see what I’ve brought for lunch but there was no sign of him. There was no sign of trout either and despite catching and releasing a few chub in the first couple of hours, no kitty emerged from the bowels of the mill to mooch.

I was thinking of moving to another nearby pond when I heard a meow. A grey and white, very pregnant cat approached to within 10 feet and made it plain she’d sure appreciate something to eat.

A couple of minutes later I caught a large chub, about seven inches long. I thought it should keep her belly full for a couple of days at least. A sharp rap to the head dispatched the luckless fish. I bent down and offered it to the cat.

She came nearer but remained well out of arm’s reach, obviously torn between wanting that fish and needing to steer clear of this Two Legs. At that point, a car approached and the cat dashed back into the mill through a permanently ajar door. When the car passed, I walked to where the cat disappeared and left the fish just outside the door.

Within 15 seconds she reappeared to snatch the fish, turned, and disappeared inside once again.

A few minutes later, she announced her approach, still licking her lips.

“Good grief kitty! That fish should keep even a preggers lady satisfied. You want pickles and ice cream now?”

She gave me that look that cats give when they’re carefully considering one’s words. Or maybe the fish was backing up a tad. Then she meowed plaintively again.

“Fine!”

I caught another, smaller chub a few minutes later. Again, she refused to take it from my hand. I tossed it towards her. She quickly picked it up and dashed back to her hidey hole in the mill.

About 10 minutes later, we repeated the performance yet again. I now assumed she was stockpiling the fish. She might be only days away from giving birth and even a rank fish would be better than nothing while she was indisposed.

When she reappeared yet again I was having my own lunch. Part of that lunch was a hunk of cheddar. I broke off a piece and tossed it. She picked it up and dashed off to her larder.

When she returned again, I knelt and held out another bit of cheese. She came within two feet of my outstretched fingers, reached out with a paw and made a half-hearted swipe, falling inches short.

It was something. I tossed the cheese a few inches and she snapped it up. This time, instead of running back to the mill, she sat near me and ate it.

“Well, I suppose I’ll take that for my thanks, you deciding to dine beside me and all.”

She licked her paw and then her face. I returned to my fishing, figuring on giving it a few more minutes before trying that other pond.

While focused on watching my float, I felt something brush against my left ankle. I looked down in time to see her rub her cheek against my leg once more before she turned away and sashayed back towards the mill.

I grinned like a god-fearing Irishman who’d just been high-fived by the Pope.

I’ll wander by again in a week or so and see how she’s doing.

This is the hungry mama-to-be. To the left, you can see the crack of the door through which she appears and disappears. (You can click the picture to see a larger version.)

This is the view of the pond from where I fish.

Here's the mill itself. What? Well, you wouldn't look too good either, if you were born in 1854.

Benny, The Fish & The Princess (#168)

2008-04-29T12:19:00.003-04:00

4-23-08

Well, that silly twit dog of mine needed his second bath in a week this morning. His second one ever, for that matter. And for the same reason as the first. He lucked into a couple of rotting trout corpses, an unpleasant but common byproduct of the spring fishing season. Not content with merely finding such treasures, he naturally had to acquire some proof in order to convince me he wasn’t fibbing.

So he rolled in them, covering himself in dirt, blood and gore and enveloping his entire little body in a miasma of eau de rot.

You’ve never seen a happier dog.

He was a little less pleased with the bathtub but submitted with reasonably good grace. Worth it I suppose.

After the first time, I’d kept him on the leash until we were well past the area of the corpse he found. Today, he found another “treasure” further upstream. He’ll remain on the leash for the morning walks for the foreseeable future.

4-29-08

I’m definitely missing the solitary aspect of walking in winter. The paths are just too darn busy these days. Everybody and their brother-in-law and their dogs are out there enjoying Spring. Can’t say I blame them but comparatively, it feels like playing on the highway. Ben enjoys the face time with other dogs but is a little frustrated because on the morning walks he’s being kept on his leash (those rotting fish I mentioned earlier).

For the most part, our evening walks occur further from the creek, so I still let him off then, and will continue, despite what happened last evening. As usual, he was some 50 yards (meters) ahead of me, scouting. He disappeared from my sight briefly as I was rounding a turn. When I spotted him next, I groaned.

He was on his back and rocking joyfully from side to side. This is hardly ever a good sign. I hurried over and called him off. Luckily, this time the object of his affections was the carcass of a desiccated salmon. The fish died months ago and had sort of freeze-dried over the winter. I was hopeful that the taint wasn’t too bad, as he wasn’t covered in gore and slime as he had been on the earlier, bath-worthy occasions.

I rubbed his flank and then smelled my hand. Not too bad. I’ve smelled worse after a day of fishing. Pretty sure.

Anyway, shortly afterwards, we met up with a woman walking her white poodle which was leashed and approximately Ben’s size. Ben, of course, dashed toward them and began playfully circling the poodle, hoping for a romp and some mutual sniffing of naughty bits.

The woman, who was rather stylishly dressed and sported dark sunglasses, wasn’t overly thrilled with Ben’s attentions. I was told that “Princess” was nipped by another dog and was nervous of them. Princess appeared fine to me, curious and unafraid, but I called Ben off. It reminded me of how some moms will feel a chill and immediately put a sweater on their child who was blissfully unaware of being cold.

We let Princess and the Queen Mum get well ahead of us while I diverted Ben’s attention by tossing a stick.

About 10 minutes later though, our paths crossed again. By now we were nearing the road and I had Ben back on his leash. The Queen Mum was inclined to stop and chat this time, probably because Ben’s attentions were somewhat curtailed. As we spoke, she bent to pat him.

I almost said something about his earlier roll in the salmon carcass. My internal debate lasted for the two seconds it took for her hand to make contact with Ben’s fur. I decided to smile and nod instead as she stroked him and chatted about the weather.

A minute or so later we bid each other a pleasant good evening. She’d probably find out when she got back to her car, or home. Or maybe not. When Ben and I returned, I held him close and sniffed deeply.

He was fine. He just smelled like an old fishing buddy to me.

If we meet again, I expect the Queen Mum’s reaction at that time will tell me if she agrees.

Of Geese & Men: Spring Fishing Adventures II (#167)

2008-04-22T11:45:00.003-04:00

If you haven’t read the first part of this story, you may do so by scrolling down the page a bit.

###

Approximately 150 yards south of where I was fishing, and on the opposite side of the creek, is a boat launch ramp and parking lot. The ramp is busy during the summer and fall months with pleasure boaters and salmon/trout fishermen. They launch their craft in the creek and putter south for half a mile until they reach the harbour and Lake Ontario.

A car with a canoe strapped to the roof appeared in the lot and gave me something new to look at. Two people got out of the vehicle, unstrapped the canoe and carried it to the water’s edge.

It was early afternoon now and the temperature had probably reached 10C (50F) under sunny skies but the water temperature was still only about 4C (39F). I couldn’t see the people very clearly but it seemed obvious they were not wearing floatation gear. After placing the canoe in the water, one of them returned from the car carrying two very old-fashioned, keyhole-type life preservers which were plopped into the bottom of the canoe.

I shook my head. If they were to overturn, hypothermia would set in quickly and there was zero chance they’d be able to don those antique life jackets while in the water. I hoped they had no intention of heading to the lake proper.

It seemed they didn’t. They pointed their canoe upstream and stroked their way toward me, politely staying close to the opposite shore where they were least likely to interfere with my fishing.

A russet-haired woman, in her early-mid 30s and wearing a heavy knit sweater, sat in the bow. I didn’t get much of an impression of the man in the stern except to note he also wore a sweater and some kind of off-white toque on his head.

They both waved as they passed and I waved back. As I watched them stroke their way upstream, my dismay at their old lifesaving gear was replaced by admiration for their paddling prowess.

They stroked and paused in unspoken unison, displaying a synchronicity that could only be born from hundreds of hours of togetherness. On every second stroke, the woman in the bow would rest her paddle on the gunnel for a two-count. The man would simply pause in mid-stroke, paddle blade hovering. Their strokes were precise and clean. The blades barely dripped. It was poetry. Too soon, they were out of sight.

###

Shortly after the canoeists passed, Mr. Couple, the lonely goose whose mate had been driven off by a rival, caught my attention again. He had been desultorily preening on the opposite bank when he suddenly waddled back into the water and began swimming southward, to my right. He was making soft noises, almost as if talking to himself, and was swimming with intent.

In a moment, I could see why. Swimming upstream to meet him was his lost lady love. I was amazed he could recognize her from such a distance. I’m fairly certain he didn’t hear her. There was something about her, perhaps her swimming style, that he recognized from over a hundred yards away. I was very pleased they’d found each other again.

So he wasn’t being blase (or a pig!) after all. He was just patiently awaiting his mate’s return. He had faith.

Men are such saints.

###

A half-hour after they’d disappeared upstream, the canoeists returned, this time a little closer to the middle of the creek. We chatted briefly about the lovely day as they passed me again. This time I noted that the man’s “off-white toque” was actually a thick head of grey-white hair. He seemed to be in his late 50s or early 60s and I wondered if they were a father/daughter or May/December pair. I hoped the former.

How wonderful to foster, then share, a much-loved activity throughout childhood and into adulthood, like my father and I did with fishing. It’s a priceless gift for both parent and child.

###

May have jumped the gun a tad when I declared the gander a non-pig. A few minutes after his mate’s return, he swam behind her and, in a flurry of splashing and honking, clambered atop her back, immersing her completely.

If the act I’m pretty sure he intended, actually occurred, I sure hope she was one of those rare, easy-to-please females because in two seconds they were back above water and swimming apart.

Men are so...efficient.

###

The shadows were lengthening. My thermos was empty. The fish, if any were indeed around, were too polite to disturb my half-day reverie. That other reality beckoned and I reluctantly packed my gear for the half-mile walk back to the car.

Several hours earlier, when I walked to the fishing spot, I passed a couple of mated pairs of geese swimming in the creek. Now, on the way back, they were on the shore and quite close to the path I was walking.

The two pair were about 100 yards apart. As I clomped past them in my hip waders, the males (I presume) hissed and muttered soft warnings. I could tell they didn’t want to have to mess with me but would, if I came too close. I reassured them, both verbally and via my body language, that I posed no threat. I avoided eye contact, spoke softly and didn’t break stride.

Men are so brave, respectful, and all-round admirable.

###

Maybe my next fishing adventure will feature a finned critter or two. Or not. Doesn’t matter. Fishing is always good.

Here's where I set up shop for the day. The rod on the left is ready for action. The rod leaning on the stick is already in action - sorta.

Mr. and Mrs. Couple, in a non-intimate moment.

Can you spot the froggie above?

Okay, how about now?

Spring Fishing Adventures - Part One (#166)

2008-04-16T13:12:00.003-04:00

Despite my outdoor enjoyment with Ben this winter, my spirit meter was still down a quart because it had been quite some time since I’d been fishing.

I remedied that over the last couple of days. Here’s Part One of what happened:

###

Finally! We have lovely, true-Spring weather with temperatures around 7C (45F). It was warmer in town, just a couple of miles north of where I fish, but my proximity to Lake Ontario subtracted a few degrees.

High water precluded fishing from my usual spot, so I set up shop at my second-favourite, the confluence of two creeks. Geese appeared to be pairing up. I spotted several couples on my walk in and a pair were nibbling at grass on the opposite bank from where I decided to fish, about 100 feet (30 metres) away.

Conditions weren’t conducive to actually catching a fish. The water was still too high and dingy and most of the trout had undoubtedly moved beyond this part of the creek, further north into spawning water. Those spawning grounds, parts of which include the area where Ben and I walk daily, were off-limits to anglers for 10 more days.

Which was fine. Because I didn’t come for the fish. I came for the fishing.

###

As expected, the underwater action was slow. After an hour, I quit drifting roe under a float, rigged up a worm on a slip-sinker rig, cast it out and set my rod down on a forked stick. I then commenced some serious idling.

Soon, I was ambling along the shoreline, peering amongst the flotsam for anything of interest. Spooking a frog was accompanied by a sudden realization:

For 50 years, ever since I was a kid, I’d do this when the fish weren’t biting. I’d wander the shoreline looking for frogs, crayfish, minnows and/or treasure. Treasure usually took the form of lost or forgotten fishing gear - a lure or a float, sometimes a knife or some coins.

I wasn’t to be disappointed this day either. As if spotting the frog wasn't enough, I found two floats tucked in amongst some reeds. One was of the balsa variety I use often, the other was a plastic model, more suited to a young angler. I kept the former and “hid” the latter on a branch of a nearby tree, at approximately the eye level of an eight-year-old.

###

Lunch was a fisherman’s feast and I nibbled at it over the course of the afternoon - a bag of pumpkin seeds, a couple of thick slices of kielbasa, a chunk of old cheddar and two mini-carrots so, if questioned, I could respond with a righteous “Of course I ate some vegetables!”

I choked down the carrots first so I could savour the good stuff. Dessert was a chocolate-covered granola bar and all of the above was washed down with hot, honeyed cups of tea from my thermos.

As I sipped and chewed, I watched and listened.

Geese nibbled grass and each other. The cries of soaring gulls swelled and faded as they dipped close, then away. The buzzy trill of redwing blackbirds was as near-constant as the distant hum of the highway. To the north, perhaps a mile away, four turkey vultures circled slowly. I pitied da’ food.

Every hour or so, the peace was shattered by a mournful whistle heralding the rumbling approach of a train at the nearby crossing. For a thunderous few seconds, as it blasted its whistle yet again, all other sounds disappeared. Then, after the train’s departure, like cautious children peeking around a corner after a parental quarrel, the birds re-took up their songs.

###

The pair of geese I considered a couple were in the shallows on the opposite side of the creek when two other geese paddled their way upstream. The newcomers passed on my side of the creek, about 20 feet in front of me.

Well, I guess they got too darn close for Mr. Couple’s liking and he tore after both, skittering across the top of the water, half flying and half running, all the while honking and hissing his outrage. He veered towards the goose in the lead and chased it upstream, to the north. I heard the commotion but my view was blocked by some trees.

The trailing newcomer suddenly flew towards Mrs. Couple, who had been left defenseless on the opposite shore. Trumpeting her alarm, she dashed off to the south, the newcomer in hot pursuit, only inches behind. As they flew past me, I could almost feel the concussion of their wing beats. Within seconds, they too were out of my sight.

A moment later, Mr. Couple’s triumphant return from chasing off one challenger was ruined by the realization there’d be no hero-welcoming nuzzle from Mrs. Couple.

She was gone.

I felt badly for Mr. Couple as he swam back and forth in front of me, bugling softly. He stopped calling within a few minutes though, and seemed to resume his normal behaviour - preening and feeding.

Men are such pigs.

###

To be continued....

Sticks & Pups & Play (#165)

2008-04-01T12:49:00.002-04:00

Yep, another excerpt from Walking With Benny.

3-26-08

Last evening’s walk was a misery. A wind-whipped rain (one degree colder and there’s another word for it) made me glad for my hood. My gloves were soon soaked and do not retain heat at all well when wet. By the time we returned, Ben was shivering and needed to be toweled off. (Don’t feel sorry for him. Within seconds, he was playing tug-of-war with the towel.)

So I was pleased to awaken to a sunny day that was a couple of degrees on the happy side of freezing.

Last night’s rain was still frozen in the shaded areas, so I had to tippy-toe for part of the walk but the sunshine and warmth made up for that temporary discomfort. The birds were still singing their fool heads off except, of course, for the gulls and crows. They can’t sing a lick. They screeched and cawed their fool heads off though; sounding just as happy, if a trifle less melodic, than their kin.

I joined them occasionally, in a dignified manner. My caw has promise but I think I’ll retire my screech.

Ben is learning the Joy of Sticks. He seeks them out now, especially when I’ve stopped to do something boring like listen to a set of rapids or try to spot a calling bird. His favourites are moist and heavily barked. These shred easily and really, what good is a chew if it doesn’t make some kind of a mess? Like most pups, he was gifted in this area. At eight weeks of age, he could turn a single tissue into 273 pieces and distribute them throughout three rooms. In less than a minute. The lad was a prodigy. And a bit spooky.

Anyway, for a goodly portion of our walks these days, he’s either happily carrying or happily destroying a stick. It’s quite comical to watch at times. He’s especially proud when he manages to snag a long one, a three-footer or so. Of course, it’s whip-thin but to look at this wee dog prancing down the path, head and tail proudly erect, you’d think he just broke a stick-carrying world record and he’s basking in the huzzahs of the cheering throng.

And then I lunge - as if to steal it - and the game is on.

My thunderfeet are no match for his limber legs and he knows it. He taunts me, scampering some distance ahead, then laying down for a quick gnaw while never taking his eyes off my lumbering progress.

I give up. I stand erect, lower my arms from their vaguely menacing, gonna-grab-that-stick position, and walk more quickly, not looking at him. I am obviously tiring of the game. He dances ever closer with the stick, alert for any untoward movement of mine. He suspects I’m likely feigning. I mean, who wouldn't want such a yummy stick?

Another lunge, a quick dodge, and he’s off again, grinning.

Maybe I’m too old and too clumsy to win at this game (although I prefer to blame my heavy winter boots and clothing) but you’re never too old to play, right?