As Threatened: More Words & Pics (#239)

As most of you do not know, I recently bought a new camera and a couple of lenses. It is a VERY spiffy camera (and lenses) - the likes of which I have dreamed of owning since the 70s, when I first fell in love with photography. I'd invested in a couple of nice 35 mm SLRs (Single Lens Relex) over the years, but couldn't afford specialized lenses and still pay for the film and developing. By the mid-late 80s, with a growing family, I couldn't afford the hobby any more and reluctantly gave it up.

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)

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)

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)

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

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.

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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.


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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

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

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)

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)

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.

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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)

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)

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)

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)

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

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)

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)

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)

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)

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

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.