Feather Brained

It's all Hieroglyphics to Me

2012-01-19T20:21:00.001-05:00

Hieroglyphics:
"Hieroglyphic symbols, unlike letters in our alphabet , are used to describe what we would use a group of letters to- such as an idea or thought in a picture form. Like to describe the sun for example

they would have a picture similar to the sun, or to describe a crocodile you would see a picture similar to a crocodile. While some of their symbols are easy to understand it took years and help from many artifacts for scientists to decode these symbols."

So saith Reference.com. Like they're basically saying that uh hieroglyphics are like word pictures to convey an idea.

Remember the ancient Egyptians? They etched their thoughts, mournful, mundane, murderous and otherwise all over the pyramids which are arguably the penultimate burial vaults on earth. In doing so, they unwittingly made Harrison Ford and a deck of Hollywood movie moguls multi-billionaires many suns and moons later as they were inspired to create moving picture shows about lost arcs, sun gods, grocery lists and golden treasure in order to entertain us.

IN THE MEANTIME, back to reality.

Nature also leaves hieroglyphics all over the earth. Within the power of every creature is the ability to communicate, at times with intent. At times, not.

Winter in Canada provides many opportunities to read the stories being told by fox, wolf, squirrel, mouse, ferret, raccoon, deer, mink, fisher, coyote...they are all out and about, roaming the forests, fields and farms. While they forage they write their tales of life and death and now it is for you to decipher...

Great Grey Owl lands suddenly. Kills quickly. Leaves.

What hops along and lands on its little bum every time? (I don't know)

Squirrel? but what's the long deep cut made by?

and what's the plunge on the right?

Steps in its own trace, drags tail. Nope. No clue here unless it's a fox?

Ghost owl. Likely Eastern Screech. Dropping in for take out dinner.

Ah! This one I know. Winter s'quitter. Running around in loud, noisy circles.

Humans. Creating hieroglyphics.

These are a Few of My Favourite Things

2012-01-02T19:47:00.000-05:00

I would love to soar above the earth, free to follow the breezes. Untethered. Accountable only to myself, or my baser instincts. But Free. As a bird.
I don't know why I feel this way, only that I do. And that one of my greatest life pleasures is being outdoors, watching birds.
This ~~hobby~~ passion has taken me all over North America and parts of the Caribbean, and now is the primary reason we travel. To see new birds. Yes to see new places and meet new people and have new experiences, too. But, those of you who share this addiction know. It gets in your blood.
I have over 25 bird guides/books, 50+ bird sculptures and miscellaneous pieces of bird art, four pairs of binoculars, 10 feeders, an account at the local feed store (!)...well, you can see that it is a pretty major part of my life.
Over the past few years, since starting this blog, I carry a camera with me (as well as binoculars) and I now have several hundreds or thousands of photos. Which I have decided to start culling and organizing a little...starting today.
So here are my favourite bird shots of 2011...no particular commentary, just that each and every photo is a memory of a small, feathered thrill that left me smiling.
Funny. As I age, I can't remember what I had for breakfast, or what we did on the weekend -but I can remember taking every single one of these photos!

2011 was a wonderful year, birding mainly along the routes and rivers of the Ottawa Valley, and along the eastern seaboard, from Connecticut to Long Island, Delmarva, Cape May, South Carolina and all parts in between

enjoying many flights of pure fancy!

It's a Small World After All

2012-01-01T12:06:00.000-05:00

For the past week or so, I have been ruminating. Looking around, thinking about this and that, bits, bites, books and birds.

Wondering what's new, and what's hot. Newsworthy, or not.

And with the exception of a few small things, I find that the more things change, the more they remain the same.

Friends and family and just plain folk -we all continue to struggle with:

LOVE

How to find it, court it and keep it.

HEALTH

How to be stronger, faster, thinner, smarter, harder, softer, better.

HAPPINESS

How to nurture, share, savour and care.

Besides love, health, and happiness -what else is it that the human spirit searches for? The degree to which we are successful in our quest can move mountains, molehills and armies of men.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

This is the lesson I have learned in the past year or several.

And it's not that it's good or bad. It just is.

While visiting Montreal over Christmas, I came across this amazing scene in the windows of a little Italian restaurant in NDG. Like all things small and intricately wrought, it drew me in..and I spent a lot of time just looking at this amazing vignette. Wondering how it got started. Who started it? Who keeps it up? Who creates it? Who protects it? Is it a village effort? Who's hands have made the tiny tools? Who's mind has decided what's needed next?

Who sets it up? Who takes it down?

And within it all, there are a hundred stories being told.

Each one set up to let you linger, to question, and to enjoy.

Which I did. And which you can too.

Happy New Year. May your life be as full as this one!

Half Baked

2011-12-18T16:29:00.001-05:00

They are half baked you know...the beans that are simmering in the oven, and have been doing so since about 10:00 am this morning.
I rarely make baked beans, but yesterday I passed the little white rocks in the baking section at the grocery store, and thought..it's time.
The recipe I'm using is a combination of what's on the back of the Thompson Pea Bean package for Old Fashioned Baked Beans, and my mom's recipe in her book, the The Northern Cookbook. Her's calls for stewed tomato as well as ketchup, vinegar, brown sugar, mustard etc. Thompon's omits the tomato and uses less salt, less sugar, less everything really.

So used the lesser bits of Thompson's recipe, and added the stewed (home made!) tomato as well.
I put all the ingredients together into a traditional bean pot and stuck it in the oven hoping to be able to eat it for dinner. That will work.

Then I went Christmas shopping, gathering up the last gifts I need to make family and friends feel appreciated. It's so un -Christmassy here this year...no snow, mild temperatures, rain sometimes...just plain weird. The Ottawa River is still wide open and it's December 18th! While family is spread across Canada and the U.S., some of us will be getting together while others will be dearly missed. So, must say, I'm not feelling the Christmas spirit so much.

The older I get, and the further away from the day to day involvement in my kids lives, the harder it is to find those little moments that say, "Ahhh, so this is Christmas."

But I do find it it eventually. Found some of it today in fact, when I was driving to town to shop and listening to CBC Radio and the Vinyl Cafe. Today it was Dave Cooks a Turkey story day read by Stuart McLean. And it felt like putting on a comfortable pair of slippers after finally taking off the ungodly high-heeled boots that always scrunch my toes!

Dave got me to thinking about other Christmas traditions that I have -and carry just for me in my heart. Another one also involves CBC Radio, and Alan Maitland's reading of The Shepherd every Christmas Eve. Makes me cry every time I hear it, but they're happy little tears.

Another tradition I have is to read the Letter from My Grandfather to his children during the World War II. It's a poignant, heartfelt letter from a father that I can't read without a kleenex at hand. I'm so proud of his talent and literary genius, and prouder yet to be a part of his legacy. My kids always used to roll their eyes and silently smirk the smirk of kids being uncomfortable with love expressed publicly...but they listened, and they each "get it" now. The love of family that defines who we are every day, not just Christmas day.

So the beans...back to what started this whole thought process. I finished my shopping, and drove home. I arrived to a quiet house, with a fire softly glowing and the whole place smelling like home made bread and baked beans. It was like walking in to a warm, gentle hug from my Mom. The feeling was immediate and comforting. Mom died in January, 1979 and I haven't felt her prescence in a long, long time 'though I do think of her often. This was different. This felt like home, a hug and Christmas.

And so I think I'll have to add home made baked beans to the list of where Christmas lives traditions.

Sentinels Around Us

2011-11-22T15:30:00.001-05:00

In any place, at any time, there are sentinels. Whether we notice them or not, they are there.

Watching, waiting, willing.

Some are creations of nature. Some of man.

All have their purpose and their place in time.

The solitary wolf seeks the shoreline and safety.

A sanctuary where he can rest after the hunt.

Ever wary.

The stallion poses in perpetual victory.

Under the mighty steed's watchful eye we witness Wolfe's triumph.

For a moment frozen in time, he lives.

Now tethered to the land, she guides her journeymen and ~~sailors~~ salers over a concrete sea.

The sentinel wall of the armoury ensures that the enemy will be spotted well in advance.

Military foresight, man before machine.

True. North. Strong.

Not Free.

They stand on guard.

What if these wall could talk?

They still watch and listen.

The silent sentinels speak volumes.

ABC Wednesday

Light

2011-11-19T09:03:00.000-05:00

Like a moth to flame, I am drawn. I sense it and seek it.

First light, a welcome sigh of being. Of relief. I am.

Uplifting, strengthening. Fulfilling. Healing.

It pulls me in, beckoning, luring. Promising.

It sends me off in different directions. Pausing for thought. Guiding me.

Reflecting me. A moment in time.

Even in darkness, I seek the light. I want the light.

I find no comfort in darkness.

I have no curtains in my home.

Bits, Bites, Books, and Birds

2011-11-18T16:03:00.001-05:00

Dear Readers,

This bloggy thing has been bothering me for awhile.

Have I said everything I've had to say? I don't think so. And people who have heard me rant on occasion would likely agree.

Has my muse left? Maybe. At least She appears to have been taking a leisurely walk about my mind, scratching here, sniffing there. Looking under rocks, poking her nose in places she shouldn't, and generally being absent from the frontal lobes.

Though recently, in the past week or so, she's come knocking. Gently tapping me awake in the middle of the night. Presenting ridiculous things to think about, that once I fall back to sleep, I immediately forget. I awake to a wisp.

I've been circling the computer lately. Looking at it. Bringing up the blog. Checking for visitors or comments. None recent.

I miss them both.

But unless you put it out there, there is no there for people to come and visit.

So where has my there to put out gone? Or perhaps, the better question is not where it has gone, but why has it gone?

There are times I can't shut my mind off. It's firing on 8 cylinders, rocking and rolling over the events of the day, a bit of a book I've read, a bird I've just seen, a bite I've just taken -and I want to talk about it all.

But I can't. At least, I have been telling myself I can't because my LABEL is not inclusive enough.

Good god. I can't believe I just wrote that!

My marketing gene is trying to make a pitch in the middle of a presentation to my public

MY point is, that having called this blog "Featherbrained" I have defined it as a blog primarily about nature. And as a result I have met all of these amazing naturalists.

And I am not sure if they want to hear about things like The Day I Stuck Out My Thumb in Banff , or Biffy Buffing is Not For Old People or Aunt Ethel Made Amazing Jam Buns or A Child's Version of Old Mother Hubbard, or My Favourite Meal Ever This Week, or....See what I mean? Not a thing about birds, or birding, or nature.

After researching many blogs on line, looking for a template that would allow me to be more multi-dimensional I came up empty, unless I choose to go the website route.

No, I don't.

So, gentle reader. Here's the deal.

I'm going to change this blog up a bit. Mix up the storyline. And write about whatever I feel like. I'll still call it Featherbrained..but perhaps on the non nature days, I'll provide a spoiler alert,so if you're not so inclined to read about The Lesson of Bertha Archer or whatever I choose to share, well, then you can just click on over to something or someone else. I won't mind, and I'll no longer feel guilty!

When you see a feather, it's about nature. When you don't? It's not.

Hope you choose to linger a little longer,
Susan

Hey, Look Me Over!

2011-10-14T16:43:00.000-04:00

Three weeks of travel along the back roads and shorelines of the eastern seaboard, and I now have a raft of pictures to wade through.

It’s amazing what we feel we need to share with others. And while it could be argued that that includes this blog, a blog is different. People must actually seek it out and choose to be engaged by reading it. The stuff of dreams and nightmares that has been erected along our North American highways and byways is something else entirely!

What started this train of thought was this nightmarish rendition of a duck found nesting on eastern Long Island. If I was a little kid, in the back of Daddy’s car, and saw this thing rolling by, I’d be having bad dreams for a month! The Big White Duck is actually a little museum that can hold about 4 people at a time. Once you’re laid out the back door, another person can slide in through the front. You’ll be greeted by a lonely woman who loves to cluck about the reason the duck exists (built by a duck farmer as a place from which to sell eggs in the 1930’s). It’s all slightly quaint and no doubt, gives people something to crow about during hunting season.

Not far from The Duck is Popeye. He stands beside a little red tractor, pipe tightly clenched as he beckons people to come in and visit the fresh market stall which, from time to time, features spinach. He’s the hardest working employee in the place –stands there all day, never takes a break, always smiling…kind of makes you want to kick’im. (And I believe several people do take shots at, and of, him). Didn’t see Olive, but likely she was in the back, cooking cobs of corn and canning spinach.

Now THIS little home is remarkable, because it is actually a lighthouse offshore from Groton, Connecticut. It was built in the empire style, using red brick and white trim so that it would match the stately homes along the shoreline. It didn’t occur to the design committee of the day that it just looks plain odd sitting out there all by itself in the harbour, waiting for a wave. My first thought when I saw it was that it would be good place for a quarantine unit, or insane asylum, or perhaps both. It was occupied until the late 1980’s when the nutter who worked there died of an incurable disease. Okay, that last part’s not true –but it was automated in 1987.

As we travelled further south, we passed giant ears of corn, peaches, tomatoes, apples –just about every kind of fruit, vegetable and nut imaginable! And they weren’t all real! And that’s when it occurred to me in this land of plenty, that most of these attractions were about food. Which is why this little porker is particularly apt. Piggly Wiggly, as it turns out, was the first self serve grocery store in the United States and launched a tsunami of change when it opened its doors. The packaging industry took off, as did canning and food preservation, labelling, marketing and advertising. No longer did you have to go and wait in line while the missus who served you and packaged your goods talked to the chatterbox in front of you who got there first. Nope, you could stroll around the shop, pick out what you wanted, bring it to the cash register, and be on your way.

Done, done and done. This little Pig is your friend who will help you bring home the bacon easily!

Come What May

2011-09-26T21:18:00.001-04:00

There’s something to be said about Cape May, New Jersey. In fact, there is a LOT to be said about this geographic funnel that gathers up all the birds along the eastern seaboard of North America, and spits them out near the beach in Cape May. No matter where you look, there are birds, and lots of happy looking people dressed in khaki, wearing bins and carrying tripods with huge scopes attached to them.

It is renowned as one of “The Last Great Places” where the forces of nature are still in control, and both residents and visitors recognize that it is truly special. Once you go, you know.

This is my third trip here, and this time it was to be for one night...but, with the flick of a cape, one night turned into four...and just like that another great birding vacation unfolded

Cape May is unlike any place I’ve ever been before. People stand on the side of the curb, with binoculars up and butts sticking out into the road, and cars slow down so the driver can ask, “Got anything good?” and if the answer is interesting enough, he’ll pull over, grab the binoculars off the front seat, and get out of the car to see what’s up. (This has happened to me here. Seriously.)

There’s a sign hanging from the balcony of the motel that reads “Birders Welcome”. And we are.

But it doesn’t start with the friendly people who GET how important conservancy is to the total well being of the continent, nay, planet. It’s about the birds that are here in abundance. That you can’t help but see, and in seeing them, become engaged by them and watch in awe as they show us how to fly – figuratively speaking for the most part.

Did you know that there is a reason that mosquitoes are put on earth? My friend the nuclear physicist tells me it’s to pollinate plants like blueberries.

That’s one of the reasons, but yesterday I watched dragonflies zoom across the pond at the Cape May Observatory, hovering ever so briefly to nab a mosquito, then another, then another. Until, from behind, while the dragonfly was chowing down, a kestrel came zooming across the pond, grabbed it, and proceeded to eat lunch on the fly, so to speak.

A short time later we were driving along Sunset Blvd. and noticed a scuffle above the car. Slowing down and with heads stuck out the windows, we saw a Bald Eagle attack and harass an Osprey who was simply bringing home lunch- a nice little catch of the day to enjoy on the perch. The B. E. really didn’t care why or where the Osprey was headed. He simply saw an opportunity to take something, rather than go fetch his own. And so he did because he can. He plunged at the Osprey, scaring the fish out of him, and with a few artful dodges, he had the Osprey on the defence. The big O dropped his fresh catch of the day in order to avoid a serious collision with a big flying bastard who could care less about how it might affect O’s welcome home tonight. B.E. caught the (truly) flying fish in his talon, and lumbered off. Big O headed back to the waters to begin all over again.

These lessons are brought to you by the birds:

Pay attention to details. Stay alert. Cover all of your assets. If you want to feather your nest, keep it well hidden from the neighbours. Always have an escape plan. Corporate raiders don’t care. Some days you get lunch, some days you are lunch.

Go Where? Journey Planning by People I've Never Met.

2011-09-21T22:27:00.000-04:00

Who knew that a simple question posed on a singular FaceBook page (Birders) would morph into the trip route for 2011?

Actually, I did. Or rather, I hoped it would. As it did four years ago on a trip to SE Arizona, and a simple query via internet to some guy (sic) named Ken Burns about birding hotspots. He, an internationally renowned owl expert, turned my simple, naive question into an epic, unforgettable journey! So to ask a similar question about birding hotspots between Pembroke, Ontario and Hilton Head, South Carolina and to receive 20 responses was- and is- fantastic!

And so here we are and here’s Day 1 - 4 by the numbers:

As we head towards South Carolina, it’s mainly drive-by birding with some great experiences to mix things up a bit:

17, 417, 15, 87, 90, 91, 1, 9, 95, 25 , 48 – the highway numbers that have brought us from there to here. In this case, here is Long Island Sound and the village of Greenport;

1000+ the number of starlings massing on wires all along the route.

27 – species seen from the car so far as we’ve driven from the Ottawa Valley to Long Island Sound

18 - the size of the flock of wild turkeys chowing down on a suburban lawn in Old Saybrook, CT on Sept. 20th

11- number of black turkey vultures seen gliding above me as I drift along the highways too.

9 - members of a small herd of deer on Long Island who ran in front of the car tonight. No one hurt.

4 –White Rumped Sandpipers on our beach the morning we left on this adventure;

and the number of springs of elixir of youth in Saratoga Springs...Number 4 is "particularly potent", and I drank it dry. Oops.

3 –states so far: New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut

2- provinces: Ontario, Quebec

2- countries: Canada, USA

1 –ocean (Atlantic)

1 –ferry –from New London, CT to Montauk, NY (by the way: did you know that some slightly addled boaters have actually tried to run their boats under the “Cat” ferry while it was running its route from Nova Scotia to Maine? Man's limits for stupidity have no boundaries!

And so, after 4 days I started to feel the vacation mode settle in –as it did this morning, while we sat reading the newspaper and sipping a coffee in a Starbucks, with the Beatles quietly serenading us. It occurred to me that this was the first time in YEARS that I’ve done that.

But back to the numbers:

Day 5...

4- the number of Tibetan Monks in this picture which I've called Monk Fish on Montauk

34 -the final tally of species after day 5, last one of the day being a

Common Eider in Montauk.

27- Great Shearwaters who flew past to say hello to the Monk fish(ers) of Montauk.

2,375,000. -the asking price for the quaint little cedar shake shack on the beach that I can imagine me living in.

I Don't Care if You Feel Like Dying, It's Not Your Turn.

2011-08-07T21:15:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, a friend lost an arduous battle with cancer. Right now, I have two other friends fighting the fights of their lives. Another friend is facing challenges, and yet another is wondering what's going on with her body and if it is now betraying her.

Five years ago, I heard those three little dreaded life-changing words: "You have cancer".

While the entire medical team we were blessed with was wonderful, one of them captured the moment succinctly when he said," Your train has left the station, and you're on it for a ride that will have lots of stops and starts. Your destination is Health. And you will get there."

Another doctor talked about cancer becoming more of a chronic disease...meaning that there are now treatments and management regimes to help people diagnosed lead long, relatively normal, healthy lives. If diagnosed early (and that is a fairly critical component) many cancers can be treated, and are no longer the automatic death sentences they once were.

No matter what the type of cancer, or the prescribed treatment, there are many people impacted by the diagnosis, including YOU ...as a husband, wife, son, daughter, cousin, uncle, aunt, friend, and or lover. And there are ways you can help make this a little, and sometimes a lot, easier when the going gets tough.

And believe me, there are times when it will be tough.

Early Days...
1. First, and foremost. Listen to what you're being told. And don't deny what you are hearing. When someone is telling you about their diagnosis, it's not about you.

2. A warming hug, and a simple "I'm here to help you, with whatever you need" statement is more important than denials, questions about the diagnosis, or dismissal as crazy. While doing that kind of stuff, you may think you're showing support and love. But you're not -you're showing your own shock and dismay. And it's not your turn. It's your turn to comfort, to have and to hold. (All the questions and validations of information will come later...all part of the train ride.)

3. Be there. Simple smiles, hugs, and genuine support. If it's within your realm, offer to help and be an advocate...attend medical meetings, take notes, ask questions..your pal with cancer is likely off in la la land, worried about surviving til the next day, and not likely to be taking in all of the information that they'll be given. Being an advocate is a tremendous help.

4. When it is right to do so...you'll know because you'll recognize that quiet moment and the unspoken question...talk about how you feel about what's happening. It's ok to say it's all quite frightening...but don't go into great detail about the fact that you're scared to death too. Pillar of strength...not a foam noodle.

Into the Thick of It...When the Going Gets Tough
5. Little things are the important things. If you're making lots of trips to clinics or hospitals for treatments, carry along some great music and remember the ear buds. Bring some little sweet treats. A bit of good chocolate. Some nice hand cream, whatever ...just make it small, simple, sincere and heartfelt.. tiny gestures to help ease the journey.

6. Think of incentives and ways to motivate him (or her) to focus on the treatment outcome rather than the crap they're in the middle of:

- Come in to the treatment room with half a hundred dollar bill. Say the other half is waiting at home on the fridge door (and make sure it is).

- Bring in travel brochures. Circle a few you know would be of interest...then show the tickets you've bought for the celebratory trip once treatments are over

- Talk about the best book you've ever read (or that you know would be liked) Bring it in to be read...but cut out the last chapter. It's at home on the bedside table.

Goofy stuff, yes...but they show that you care, and that their job is to get through it. It all helps, especially on those darker days. These little motivators may not be big things, but if they bring a smile, they're worth it. Think of things that he (she) considers precious, or has longed to do...start with that and make it even more of an incentive.

Being Prepared...

7. There may come a time when it's appropriate to talk about worst case scenario...and "what if I do die?" Don't deny, and do be a good listener. Offer to help where appropriate: is the will up to date; what kind of funeral arrangements are wanted; all the tough stuff. But if you're respectful and acknowledge that death may be a possibility then it's easier on everyone. And once all of the difficult things have been dealt with, then you can get back to the "fun" stuff (and I use the term very loosely, as I know none of this is really fun).

Life is a Terminal Illness...

8. None of us are getting out of this alive...how we help each other through threatening times, or final transition times, is proof of our humanity.

Kid's Lit and Cats.

2011-07-28T21:25:00.001-04:00

When my two kids were little, we shared many happy hours together reading a series of wonderful nature books entitled Mr. Seemore Says - Look Up..Around...Down. It was a beautifully illustrated trio of books with a very simple story line. Use your eyes and look at everything around you; linger and learn about your place within the greater world.

The lessons, such as they were, were very simple.
#1. You have your place and purpose.
#2. So does everything, and everyone, else.
#3. We are all connected.
#4. Together we can work miracles.
#5. If you don't step on me, hurt me, or harm me, I will reward you.

Mr. Seemore says, "Look down".

This is a very different lesson from what we learn once we get into a more formal, regulated educational system which dictates: "if you step on me, hurt me or harm me, I will punish you."
But that lesson can also be found if you look around...

While the lessons will vary for those who wish to partake,

one thing is common to all ..it will be a memorable one.

There may be great swaths of destruction that rain down from time to time, causing havoc and creating chaos...

and from the chaos, tiny miracles emerge on purpose,

and so intent with purpose as to be almost invisible.

Only eyes that wish to see will.

Mr. Seemore says,

"Look for the interruption along the thin green line."

I listen. I look. I think about what I am hearing. And seeing.

And I believe that given the use of our senses, when we come to our senses, we'll be just fine.

BUT

In the meantime?

Dawson is teaching me a new set of lessons

on stress reduction.

Didn't change the world today??

Ah well.

Relax.

Tomorrow's coming soon enough.
Rest up.

Nesting Instinct

2011-07-25T17:30:00.000-04:00

If you're a female and you don't live under a rock, the term nesting instinct is likely familiar. You know, that feeling that you get sometime in your mid to late 20's, sometimes in your early 30's - it's that little voice inside your head that says, "Tick, tick, tick -time's a wastin' girl and you better get to it and do it." Make babies. Throw away the diaphragm, toss out the pills. Reason takes a hike, and hormones rush in.

It's a big step, and all it takes is about 10 seconds. Zap! You're pregnant! now start decorating the baby's room, shopping for cute little onesies and diapers and really expensive diaper bags that come in really cool colours and patterns now with all sorts of pockets and pouches for baby necessities while travelling to your mom's for an hour to escape the fact that this is a REALLY BIG STEP you took, and it lasts a lifetime!

Deep Breath!

Yup. Nesting.

But imagine being a bird!! And doing it every year. And every year the kids leave - yay! so you can get busy and do it again, and again. That is what you do, if you're a bird. You take a leap of faith one day, and plop out of the nest. Then you fly around free as a bird for a short shiny spell. Then some brightly coloured gadabout catches your eye, and before you can flip him the bird, there you are - sitting on a bunch of eggs! Feathering your nest and waiting for the "pick, pick, pick " to start so you can start flying hither and yon catching bugs like a crazed bird brain, burping them up into outstretched beaks leading to huge empty stomachs, and then off again, and again, and again! Then one day, the fluff balls take a leap of faith, and you fly 2000 miles south, and do it again, and again.

Oy.

Is it any wonder then that some birds build rather uncomfortable, flimsy nests that barely qualify as a nest? That appear to be just a bunch of twigs thrown at a branch? Not for the Green Heron a cozy, grass lined pouch swinging gently to and fro in the soft summer breeze while hugging the beautiful little oriole chick inside, safe and warm. Nope! That ain't happening. It's more like - there's your nest. Don't like it? Hah! So leave!

The Green Herons' "Kronk!" is about as rude a call a bird can have- kind of like saying "Git outtta my way! Here I come with food. Open yer mouth right now!" And I'm guessing it's a good thing the babies are so gosh durn cute, or Tired Old Bird (Mom for short) probably wouldn't even bother feeding them!
Just look at those little eyes...what's not to love!?

Diamonds in the Rough

2011-07-17T10:11:00.002-04:00

We all have our reasons why.

Why we like red instead of blue, sweet instead of sour, tuba instead of bagpipes. Perhaps it's genetically coded in and we have no one to blame but our forefathers and mothers who were either hunters or gatherers

back when it all began.

I'm pretty sure I'm from the gathering clan.

There's a body of evidence that would seem to indicate that this is true.

I like nuts.

And berries.

Salads I sometimes crave.

Coleslaw? Yum.

And tender green shoots in spring? Heaven.

I am NOT a hunter.

Although some of the clan have tried on occaision to convert me.

Once I actually went hunting for partridge with two of the members of the Hunting Clan. They put a shotgun in my hands, showed me how to load a shell in it, aim, and fire. Then left me standing amidst a bramble of raspberry canes

and told me to shoot when they flushed out a bird.

So, there I was licking raspberry juice off my fingers, admiring all the butterflies flitting about when this gray fluffy bird came streaking

right over my head!

I ducked and yelled, dropped the gun which fired off into the bushes, hopefully not hitting anything, and sat down and started shaking and babbling away,

apologizing profoundly to all creatures great and small for even contemplating shooting one of them.

Never again.

That the was the moment when I knew I was a gatherer.

But it's no a simple thing. There's much more to being a gatherer than just picking berries and eating candied pralines.

Over the years, I have come to realize that it impacts my lifestyle and the choices I make in dozens of subtle, and some not so subtle, ways.

I live on a beach. Beside a river.

This river abounds with wildlife -both the hunting and the gathering kind.

I 've seen bear, fox, deer, mink, beaver, porcupine, raccoon, rabbit, otter, mouse and moose; fish, frogs, snakes, newts, turtles and lizards.

Lots of birds and bugs and butterflies.

And I've come to realize that this beach is their home as much,

if not much more than, it is mine.

My neighbours, who only live here in the summer think I'm a little

wonky -or maybe a lot wonky. I love the reeds in front of our place.

It's not rocket science to figure out that this is an important part of the natural life around here. Why some would go so far as to recognize that it's Habitat.

And that it should be left alone.

My neighbour's disagree. They call it weeds, and every Sunday morning in the summer, they can be seen on the beach with their rakes, their ATV's and their rusty bedsprings, dragging through the weeds in front of their places.

They prefer desertscape to riparian area.

They have offered numerous times to kill the weeds out front of our place.

I have told them numerous times that those reeds and grasses serve a very special function, providing food sources for some, cover for others, and protecting the entire beach from erosian. Meh!

They don't care.

Their rough patch is my diamond mine.

And so we have agreed to disagree.

And when they mention in passing that there doesn't seem to be as many swallows or butterflies as before, I just look at them, then invite them over

to our place to watch the river flow.

Six Decades: Part IV

2011-07-13T19:35:00.000-04:00

This Six Decades Monologue isn't flowing too well.
I keep getting side tracked by the present.

That said...and so it came to pass that

somewhere between a rock and a hard place, the truth will rain down. Decisions are made, knowing deep inside that there are consequences that may not be the ones originally intended.

And you know...you just know.

That what you are about to do is probably not the smartest thing you've ever done in your life..but you do it anyways.

That is to say, I did.

I got married. I was 20 years old and he was 23.

I had completed my Bachelor of Arts in under two years, and I had gone to work in a residential school up north in Moose Factory. The boy I met just before graduation from university was IT!
But he wouldn't move in with me...
his parents wouldn't like it he said.
(Warning flag waving, and being ignored.)

Prior to putting the wedding invitations into the mailbox,

I sat holding them in my hands for an hour, looking at them,

and telling myself it was "just the jitters."

But it wasn't Jitters.

It was Me. Calling Home.

I was just too busy being young to answer.

The night before the wedding I asked my Maid of Honour

if she would also come to my divorce.
Because I knew that there would likely be one...

And so I became a missus.

We just never really seemed to fit quite right

and for a while we had fun trying.

Lots of fun.

Then lots of not so much fun.

Eight years in came the first real grown up moment- realizing that the only thing that needed changing wasn't him or me,

it was us.

We were like oil and water.

Gemini and Scorpio.

Rabbit and Rat.

All depended on which upper authority was in vogue that month,

but it came down to this everlasting thought:

You get what you accept.

And so we rejected each other.

This version of that time doesn't include the drama, trauma, pain, and heartbreak. Those were the things we felt for several years after.

But neither of us ever tried to re-invent our particular wheel.

We both knew we were wrong then and right now.

It would be a frosty Friday in hell before

we ever warmed a bench together again.

I have a million thoughts about why so many people make so many bad choices for their "life mates", but so many books have been written, so many careers as marriage counselors established,

that I am not going to

even begin to say

what I think.

Other than we blessed each other with

two wonderfully amazing, creative, heartwarming children.

And that's what I will cherish forever

about Heartache # 1.

Our True North Strong and Free

2011-06-30T23:12:00.002-04:00

We Canadians would rather flag a taxi than fly a flag.

We'll happily put little paper flags in planters and tree stumps on July 1st, but we will rarely be caught hanging a big, real one from the front porch. And for the entire summer?? Unh unh, not gonna happen.
Somewhere in between the War of the Roses and the War of 1812, it got sorted out that those, those.. people...who didn't end up on God's fair isle were fated to go to that vast empty Hinterland beyond the realm and across the pond to preserve His (or Her) Royal Majesty's majesty. And they gave their word to do so with appropriate decorum and dignified deportment.

It was further decreed that the Masses of the Hinterland (MoH's) would not bump into people, pets or inanimate objects. And if they did so, they would say, " I'm sorry." And, if the people, pets, or inanimate objects bumped into them, then the MoH's would say, "OH! I'm sorry!"

In the event of a disagreement with anyone about anything, then the MoH must quickly defer, and say, "Oh.Well then. Of course, you must be right." And if, in the rare circumstance, that it was absolutely certain that the MoH was indeed, right, then the MoH must say, "Oh dear. Well, I am sorry. But, uh, I am right. Sorry!"

We're such a sorry lot. Why people from away even make fun of us for saying sorry so much, for being so friendly, so polite, so forgiving. Not for us the dropping of a ball at midnight, nor the thunderous ride through tiny towns with a lantern. Nope..too attention-getting. Too dramatic. Too much like a TV mini-series.

No, we didn't run with bulls anywhere, either. (Rode them, yes, but only when at the Calgary Stampede.) But we did name a chocolate shop after a woman who did try to warn HRM's troops about a possible invasion from below the 49th parallel. Laura Secord is sweetly remembered every Easter and Mother's Day in The Hinterland.

And when Nature is your daily guide, over time you learn to take note and you start to see things a bit differently.

No. We don't do self aggrandisement well. We may brag from time to time, but it's usually not about the nation as a whole, it's about individual accomplishments..like Terry Fox, Wayne Gretzky, Shania Twain, Guy Lombardo (yes, sorry, he's Canadian), Alexander Graham Bell (ring a ding ding), Dr Banting (insulin treat for your diabetes), Thomas Edison (light's on), John Hopps (please tell airport security if you have a pacemaker), Peter Robertson (screw this in tight), Gideon Sundbeck (here, zip me up please)..and of course, things like Canada Dry, Canadian Club, Poutine and Beavertails (yum to the last four). And Blackberry (not the one you eat, though, there's a thought)
No, we don't like to show our official colours (red and white) because we are so much more than that.

In 1967 a book was published entitled Call Them Canadians. A table top anthology of poems, prose and pictures that attempted to define a Canadian.

One short poem has always stuck in my mind by poet Miriam Waddington:

We are not one but two,

We are not two but four.

We are not four but many.

And sometimes,

We are not any.

It's the song my paddle sings, it's my canoe, it's my kayak. And while I ply the waters of this land, it's the songs I hear of the lonesome Loon, the Whip-poor-will, the howling wolf, and the little Song Sparrow.

This is a land and a place that people have been trying to define and then subjugate for 600 years, but they still haven't quite managed to..yet. And it's because of the weather.

It's , "It's 40 below, got a heater in my truck, and I don't give a F#*k, and I'm off to the Rodeo!" Who would write a song like that?? unless they've been to Canada in January.

We got used to the Hinterland. Embraced it. Made "Canada's Hinterland Who's Who" a Monday night favourite on TV. It's still running, http://www.hww.ca/index_e.asp and celebrating Canada's incredible nature. But that 's not all that's uniquely quirky about us...there's also Bob McDonald's Quirks and Quarks..a radio show about science --that people tune in to CBC Radio to listen to! And speaking of CBC...no matter where you are in Canada, you can get CBC. Everyday. Same friendly voices, same earnest commentary, same silly jokes, same breaking world news. Essential in a country that has five time zones and half an hour later in Newfoundland.

What a place!

I'm sorry.

I can't define it.

But it is me.

A Place within me.

Shaping how I see the world around me,

and how I wish the world to see me.

This weary old world could use a little more Canada.

Happy Birthday!

We All Need a Little NYC. Really.

2011-06-24T23:25:00.001-04:00

Mention New York City and those who have been smile knowingly, and say, " I love it!! and I am going back as soon as I can."

Some who have never been and are NYC virgins say, " Meh..don't need to go there! Too big, too busy, too expensive..why shoud I do that

when I still haven't been to Biggar, Saskatchewan?

and it's bigger than New York, yucka yucka."

Some who have never been and are NYC virgins too, say " I can't wait to go!! It's big city mecca, the big apple, the whateverwhereverwhenever!"

And everyone is absolutely right.

But...once you go, you know.

It's an ode to urban. A capitalist's dream. An anarchist's orgasm. Sensory overload. Everything you ever wanted...and nothing you can't find.

Be all. End all.

It is the definition of superlative.

There is no end to the litany of descriptors, to the age old icons,

to the visions, the views, the captions and the quotes.

It is simple chaos.

And all things in between.

Incredibly brilliant architecture.

Breathtaking parks and monuments to greatness.

Endless opportunity and bottomless depravity.

Wit and witless. Charm and ignorance

It's the entire ball of yarn.

Constantly being unravelled and rerolled.

It is Everyman's City.

It is Gotham. It is Camelot.

It is all places betwixt and between.

It may be American on paper..but it's really a Country unto itself.

The vast majority of visitors find it familiar, and happily, feel at home, once the country bumpkin urge to jay-walk is quelled.

New York is the American dream personified.

Greed capitalized. Culture refined. Cuisine defined.

It is the alpha and omega of western style.

It is empathy. Sympathy. Boredom. Indifference.

And especially Patience and Fortitude.

A lesson to be learned on every corner.

A must see - again and again, and once more with feeling!

This is the City your dreams and your nightmares created.

If you don't feel alive here, you're probably not.

It's New York.

New York is the end game.

If it won't work here, it won't work.

Weird. Wired. Wonderful.

An ode to hope and humanity.

Go!

You won't be alone.

Just do it. And do it. And do it again.

Six Decades: Part III - Slightly Sidetracked

2011-06-23T23:31:00.001-04:00

I was filled with such great expectations!

By dickens, I was going to explore the pros and cons and ins and outs and ups and downs of how I got to be ME. Here and now.
But what I found happening as I edged ever nearer the precipice of the age that shall not define me is that I didn't really feel like I had a lot to share of earth shaking significance. At least nothing that would change your world. Of course, lots has changed mine, constantly and perpetually, world without end.
But right after the last installment I stalled. (And I went to New York City- we all need a little NYC.)

And after walking for hours in Gotham, my feet begged me to pay attention. I had no choice but to submit. And so now it's time to confess that I have a foot fetish.

Not the kind that makes you think of quirky high heels, slightly sleazy, I feel queazy, let me nibble your toes stuff. No, not the fun stuff. But the "at 16 years old I had a bi-lateral bunyon-ectomy" stuff. And yes, it's appropriate for you to think, "What?"
What it means is I had bunyons removed from both sides of both feet because they had impeded my abililty to pedal - and I saw a podiatrist. He said I needed to have the surgery, or I would be a "cripple" by the time I was 40. Today, and everyday since this operation, the doctor remains politically incorrect and I have been fine, and so have my feet, thank you very much.
The most outstanding outcome of the event (other than a life long love affair with foot rubs) is that it took place 2 weeks before I was due to enrol at university and check in at the residence at University of Guelph.

And so begins Chapter the Next.

I'm 16 years old. Early acceptance for spring admission to University...time to get there...
My feet are wrapped in cotton bandages, many times around each foot, protecting surgical incisions that excised bone, and were stitched together, a total of 296 times, equally shared left side, right side, left foot, right foot.
Protecting this mass of bio-hazard bandaging, were 2 very attractive green garbage bags. One per foot.
And so I arrived on campus for the very first time and entered the U of G residence, with my Mom and my sister Jane.
"Hi!" We said to the group of guys standing in the entrance hall.
"Hellllloooo!" Funny Big Guy said, " What floor are you on?"
"Uh, top floor -6th I think? Is there an elevator? 'Cuz, uh, I can't walk just now..?"
"Well", said FBG, "that's not a problem!" That guy over there will take your trunk up to your room, via the elevator, and YOU, little lady , will just hop on board my back. Hie yup!"
And -there is not one false word in this testimony- he hitched me onto his back, and I rode him up to the 6th floor of U of G residence, with Mom and Jane following behind to catch me if he fell.
Now, THAT's a first day of school.Colour me lucky and rub my feet!

Six Decades: Part B

2011-06-08T21:18:00.001-04:00

And so we moved to Canada's capital. I silently sobbed from Lloydminster to Lashburn, my father's birthplace, and a distance of about 25 miles, and then I just couldn't sustain the sadness for the loss of my first love anymore. I was, after all, moving to Ottawa, the capital of Canada! Totally exotic and beyond any pre-conceived, not conceived, and any other -eived
notions. Ottawa had big department stores and skyscrapers. For a child of the prairies, this was heady stuff. Oh. Ya. It was also the capital of Canaduh...what-evvv-errr.

We arrived in early summer - time enough to get enroled in school -advancing a year to accommodate the fact that the prairie system only took 12 years, but in Ontario, kids needed an extra year to learn everything . Who knows? And 50 years later? I don't care. I got to skip a grade.

And all of a sudden I was a big city kid, knowing absolutely no one and in high school. I learned very quickly how absolutely alone one can feel in the middle of 1000 people. And immediately on the heels of that lesson, I learned that the creepy term "Peeping Tom" was rooted in reality. As in someone was in our backyard, staring at me sleeping, night after night. CrapandshitI'mscared!

So big city living meant that this whack job (WJ) liked to look through the bedroom windows of teen-aged girls. I discovered this thanks to the next door neighbour's dog, whose barking woke me one night. In the morning we discovered that pervert WJ had dragged cement cinder blocks under my window. The next time it was huge sawed off tree stump, and then later a cement sewer conduit...all under my bedroom window, so he could stand on the peeping aide and watch. Me. Sleep. I was 13.

I won't drag this particularly tawdry incident out. The police were called, stake outs were set up...did I say I had to act as bait one night? I did.
But he was in fact caught just down the road from our home, on a ladder, peeping into the 2nd story window of a blonde 14 year old.
I don't know if he ever went to jail, or court, or even received much more than a reprimand. I hope so.

I know when I hit "publish" I will be sharing this incident with friends, acquaintances, and a few strangers. I've decided, after much consideration, that I'm okay with that.

So, my first year in Ottawa was interesting to be sure,and I think that experience may have influenced me in some ways.

Ed...to be continued

Six Decades: Part I

2011-06-06T21:13:00.000-04:00

This particular birthday has been bothering me a lot over the past while. Ever since other friends, acquaintances, colleagues, et “all” have been hitting this milestone, and many in spectacular ways.

Some have sailed gracefully into the seventh realm...taking pictures of themselves dancing; sitting on mountain tops; eating unpronounceable foods in faraway places; building new homes on remote islands; walking ancient trails; being with original friends from long, long ago; setting new standards, new rules, new lives.

Me?

I survived. And I’m alive. Not famous in the big magazine sense of the word, but the local newspaper has reported alot of stuff I’ve said and done over the past 12 years in an official capacity for the City for which I work. And I printed one copy of my blog, http://www.susansgonetothebirds.blogspot.com when I achieved 5000 readers status. So now I own a 476 page soft-bound book that I did, indeed, write. One book. One copy. No sales yet.

At 60, (well, 59 yrs, 355 days) I can say with certainty, that I have never really fit in. I have very early memories, at less than 2 years old where my Mom was handing me to the sitter, arm cradle to arm cradle and I didn’t want to be passed off. Collectively, they almost dropped the struggling Susan, but, again, collectively, they managed not to.

I remember potty training too. Amazing really...sitting on a little robin’s egg blue, tin-enamel pot in my parent’s bedroom, when the sitter came barging in and insisted that I stop, and put my diaper back on! I clearly understood that she didn’t want to have to deal with baby Sue’s ~~shit~~ poo, and really? Who can blame her?

In grade 7, at Lloydminster Junior High School, several things happened all at once on a sultry June night in 1963. I was awarded a whack of medals for scholarly aptitude, and athletic aptitude, and dramatic aptitude..clean sweep and heady stuff for a 12 year old girl who really just wanted to kiss a guy and Lynn Brown in particular.

First Kiss: 12 years old, in the back of a car (that his older brother was driving), flying 80 miles an hour towards Sandy Beach, with the moonlight casting shadows from behind. I watched as his head leaned towards my head, and we both turned, and my knees melted, and ... is it any wonder that my parents decided it was time to get their 3 pubescent daughters out of this small town?!

I think, re-reading what I’ve just written, that this is as good a place to pause as any. Not sure where this journey is leading me, but most assuredly, we’re on a little journey.

...to be continued

Just Singin' the Loonie Tunes

2011-06-01T22:36:00.000-04:00

If you live in Canada, you will know the call of the Loon

and you will likely have been told by scolding old school marm-aladies

not to mimic their call especially in the spring

when they are calling for their marm-amates.

Like this."ohhhhhwaaaaallaahooahhhhhh" or something remotely similar.

Loons are right up there in Canadian iconism with beavers

and Mounties

and Justin Bieber.

How a 16 year old kid from Stratford can take the teenage world by storm

is beyond me. (Obviously, as I never did it.)

But, gasp, I just don't get it.

(Sorry, Justin.)

So now I know that I have crossed the line.

I'm old.

And you're not.

That your handlers want you to sound like an American ghetto kid from wherever it is your newly acquired accent comes from,

in order to attract more and more teenage angsters is,

of course, their right.

And yours, too.

I just happen to think it's all a tad loonie.

A bit of a scam...the art of persuasion,

the machine in motion and the tail wagging the ~~dog~~ puppy.

This just in.

I just shared.

Just like you're doing

on all the tv talk shows.

And to quote a wood burnt sign that used to hang at the ye old family cottage,

"Ve get too soon oldt, and too late schmart.

Just in time

for y'all to think about.

Spin Cycle

2011-05-16T19:51:00.000-04:00

In the background is a peppy little voice cheerfully chattering about the nautical look, and how we can now take it the office. As she burbles away, I stare at this nautical look, and I wish I could. But I don't think that's what the etalk hostess means. This spring has been so long coming, that now that it's here, I find myself slightly off kilter. Not quite in focus and a bit soft.

Like dawn on the river. It holds me spellbound as I count hundreds, no thousands of ducks and geese, gathering, gabbing, gobbling, and going on their way. I sit and wonder where they have been. Where they will be tomorrow. I want to know their unknowable journeys. I want their promises to return. Again and again.

Like violets, and daffodils.

The cheery greeting I am given upon arrival is worth the long winter's wait.

And I smile, happy that they're so...so relentlessly yellow!

They wink and nod with the spirit of spring.

Like little red squirrels who have waited for months to scold someone.

Anyone. Me.

Like a tightly coiled furry little spring, he can't stop moving. Or chirping.

"I'm alive! I'm alive! You are too! What are you doing? Where are the peanuts?

Get the nuts! I'm alive! I'm starving here! Hurray! Hurry.

No, don't stop. Don't look at the birds. I know they're cute. So am I!

Okay, one little look... Hurry!"

How can one look just once?

This place has me on spin cycle.

I love Spring.

I'm alive.

Down By the Old Mill Stream

2011-05-07T22:57:00.000-04:00

My Mom and Dad were pretty "Hip to the Jive", as they used to say. And they had this huge collection of LP's (Ed. note: gentle reader born after 1980, you may have to look this one up) to prove it. There were the Mills Brothers, Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, The Lemmon Sisters, and many other collections of albums, including some by the Langevin Symphonette Society- the precursor to elevator music....or Muzak, as it's known amidst the mad men. Musak is actually a patented type of music delivery system for elevators, department and grocery stores. Shoppers, it has been proven, buy more when there is perky, cheerful music to shop by. And they fight less when a funeral dirge is droning in the background of the outdoor stadium as the losing hometeam exits. On the same note, it is also why municipalities often play opera outdoors and illuminate an area with zit highlighting black light to deter teenagers from hanging out late at night.
But, I digress.
Back to the old mills, brothers.
On a recent country drive, looking for signs of spring, we took the road less travelled, and followed a local area map to Burnt Bridge Road. It is always, to me, a bit of a shock to find a lovely, hidden little patch of nature, and one of the thoughts I find myself always thinking at these times is, "Has anyone else been here before? Am I the first? " I might add, that this is asked hopefully, as I am one of "those people" who will find secret places to sign my name, like on the inside of window frames in my childhood home the day we moved, so that years later, it would be discovered that I had lived there. I know. Sad. But true.
In this particular case, I most assuredly wasn't the first...but I felt like no one had been here for at least awhile...

I've lived in the Ottawa Valley for about 25 years, and have never seen this grinding stone, or heard of it's existence before. But indeed, here it sat. A round granite monolithe in the middle of sort of nowhere.

And it had a friend.

You know, when you're expecting something, like say, the Eiffel Tower to appear because you happen to be in Paris -when it appears, you're excited and slightly giddy, because it's smaller than you thought it would be, but exactly like it's supposed to look like. Only, uh, smaller.

Well. That's remotely what this was like.

"Well, lookie here!! Two grinding stones, in the middle of absolutely the bush in the middle of the Sunday drive to nowhere!"

And they're big! Well, teeny mini stonehenges, but still -about 5 feet in diameter. They didn't roll here all by themselves, that's fer sure!

(We don't get out much you now know.)

So, the Burnt Bridge had actually been rebuilt and standing on it, I could pick out this year's now not so secret picnic spot to which you're all invited.

(on the right..see? where the sunlight hits just right?)

And time was spent in that ponderous moment wondering "where does all that water come from? Where does it go?"

Someone should have built a grist mill here a hundred years ago!

Oh. They did.

Clever, resiliant, reliable pioneers.

And while there were a few water watchers down by the old mill stream,

it became apparent that they'd rather be left alone.

Out in the middle of somewhere.

Someone had already signed their name. So, of course, I didn't.

Acting Naturally.

2011-04-22T21:52:00.001-04:00

As Spring slowly, slowly unfolds this year the lessons Nature

wishes us to learn become apparent.

Things are seldom simple.

And they are seemingly not what they seem.

First and foremost, Nature is in complete charge.

If She wishes that there be snowstorms in April, so be it.

This is not about You.

Well, that's not quite true. You will learn how quickly hordes of little tiny Common Redpolls can empty a feeder full of niger. And you may also learn how much better off you'd be if you'd only taken advantage of the bird seed sales last week!
Should have done that.

The camera that was on sale just after Christmas would have captured the feeding frenzy a little better too, proving Nature's lesson that he (or she)

who hesitates ~~is lost~~ generally pays more.

You may also learn that if you must take a picture through screening, then you should have installed the lighter coloured screen and not the black stuff.

Yes, Nature helps us to see many things more clearly.

There is an art to seeing.

If you are a Hermit Thrush you need to blend in and be almost invisible in front of your prey. If you're a human trying to capture a Hermit Thrush with a camera you need to be quick. And lucky.

Sometimes you really can't see the forest for the trees. And what you think is a leaf is in fact a Purple Finch. This was a lucky shot, only discovered after

the fact, with the aid of the digital magnifier.

Nature doesn't need one of those. Ever. She knows exactly how things

are meant to be in order to blend in, you dull earthling dolt.

Of course, being in complete control of this little blue planet, third from the sun, Nature is not always nasty. In fact, after proving beyond every single solitary reasonable doubt just who's in charge, She usually sends us something breathtakingly beautiful.

A Loon calling plaintively throughout the night, searching for completion.

There is no nicer Evensong.

And just to be very sure you get every lesson you need to learn, the occasional oddity will be tossed in your direction. Just to make sure you're paying attention. That in the midst of chaos, you've kept your sense of humour.

Believe me.

Until we accept that Nature's in charge here,

and learn how to live within our means,

we're going to be needing it.

Happy Earth Day.

This is a Whine Tour

2011-04-16T17:25:00.001-04:00

While winter still insists on scratching it's cold brittle limbs against the window and pelting us with what would be rain if it weren't ice, it's a good time to at least think about birding.

One lovely mellow day last fall I went for a drive through the rich plains leading down to the river - an area of lush farm fields and ditches overflowing with tasty treats for wandering warblers, sparrows, and hawks on high.

It's an old area, on the edge of the Canadian Shield and hunted by the Algonquin over 6000 years ago. Samuel de Champlain lost his astrolabe near here on one of his visits, and the Voyageurs plied the many lakes and rivers, laden with baubles and beads to trade for furs to warm the tops and bottoms of European royalty. Over time it became a destination for Irish, Scottish, Polish, German, and French settlers, hoping to escape famine in Europe in the early 1800's.

The day of my drive, the sun was warm, and lazy bees were making slow work of the meadows, lopsided and laden with pollen, they bobbed beside me,

while bright beady eyes followed their movements.

The Yellow Rumped Warbler is one of the first warblers

to appear in the spring, his cute little butter bum seen flitting

in the bushes and along the edges of fields.

The Song Sparrow is one of the first sparrows to make it back to the Valley. I know for a fact that they have returned, because I've heard then calling out and heralding the rites of Spring. Although I suspect that today

they are hunkered down, hopefully inside a barn out of the wind and rain.

Most likely wondering when the sun is going to shine, and wishing they'd lingered

a little longer on the south side of Lake Ontario!

Here in the middle of winter, a day of rain and temperatures hovering around 0 would have everyone saying things like, " Wow, is it ever mild!"

But in April?? Not so much....

Oh crap!

I have just proven, again, that Canadians will always find

some way to talk about the weather.

Must BE the weather that causes this national trait!

Little Goosey Gander

2011-04-08T19:29:00.000-04:00

Little Goosey Gander

Wither do you wander?

Upstairs

Downstairs

In the master's chamber.

(Who dreamt up that little ditty? What could it possibly mean?)

I have no idea what it means! But I do know that over the years, given all the crap and oil and crap and oil that has been placed in the way of all creatures great and small, I have developed a profound respect for any thing with wings who manages to fly by me!

Welcome back Canada Goose, my personal harbinger of Spring.

Honkkkk...honkk...hey You! Featherbrain? You listenin' to me?

yes'm.

for more views of the skies around this world, check out
http:www.skyley.blogspot.com

Channeling Dean Martin

2011-04-01T12:49:00.000-04:00

Begin humming:

Memories Are Made of This

Take one gentle Cuban night

(Sweet, sweet memories you gave- a me)

Add one restaurant that felt right

(Sweet, sweet memories you gave- a me)

Then add a lobster tail

Some shrimp and rice as well

Strange little vanilla bean for flavour

Stir in an artist's stare

Three pesos to show you care

These are the dreams we will savour

(Sweet, sweet the memories you gave-a me

Can't beat the memories you gave-a me)

What happened to my hair?

Your eyes are brown, you shouldn't stare

(Sweet, sweet the memories Filito gave us)

Out of no where came the band

House in N' Orleans with a Cuban hand

Oh, the evening it was grand

Fold in lightly with the tunes

(Sweet sweet, the memories you gave-a me)

See some art and then the moon

(Sweet sweet, the memories you gave-a me)

One cab, one ride

One beach , one tide

Memories are made of this!

Buenos Noches!

Cuban Skies

2011-03-31T16:24:00.000-04:00

The endless shades of blue define the water's edge, and I can watch it endlessly.

It is an island rich in contrast, and no matter where you turn, there is perpetual surprise.

I don't think I will tire of this place.

If one had to define dramatic pause, this would be a good start.

If one had to define the eye of a storm, this would be the time to blink and run.

Which we did.

Visit more sky shots at http://www.skyley.blogspot.com/

The Zen of Birds for Politicians and other Arrogant Worms.

2011-03-28T22:45:00.000-04:00

A walk in the woods, a trek through the trees, bits from the branches, you name it, everywhere you turn, there are lessons asking to be learned.

Mother Nature has written her wise old ways all around you,

if you but care to stop, look, and listen.

And learn.

The beautiful back lit palm, etched by the sun is a lesson in geometry,

hidden treasure, bas relief, photosynthesis, shadows and

the "incredible lightness of being".

Nothing is one dimensional, uni-purposed, or too banal for your attention.

Lesson #1: So pay attention to the little things around you.

For amidst the branches, and behind the palm, a furtive watcher waits

for a little lizard to make its way onto the palm branch. While happily sucking up tiny red ants, the lizard is also being hunted, unaware of the danger

lurking above and behind, just over his shoulder.

He sits quietly, waiting for the moment when the lizard is so caught up in his own game, that he forgets to look over his shoulder.

"Good bye lunch."

" Hello dinner."

Lesson # 2: Check the rear view mirror once in awhile.

You never know who's got you in their sights.

And that leads us to the next lesson. What not to wear on the campaign trail?

Bright colours on top is a bad idea, especially if you're a perky little thing that likes to flitter among the crowds, quick in, quick out.

Keep it cheap and cheerful. But not too cheap or too cheerful..after all, this is an election and serious business.

Lesson # 3. This is not a fashion show.

Stick to the tried and true timeless colour basics. Black, blue, white in summer. Small little dabs of jewellery...don't stand out when you're trying to fit in.

Don't let them think you make a lot of money.

Being a buffoon is bad for business when you're trying to win the hearts and minds of the people.

Just ask this guy. Stood out so much from the crowd as he scooped up tiny fishes, that he drew far too much attention to himself, and is now endangered in some regions. The Eugene Whelan of the pelican species.

Funny. Bigger than life. Gone.

Lesson # 4: Don't be a flying dinosaur.

Politicians are meant to demonstrate wisdom. They should show us the way to harmony and bliss. They are supposed to be leaders, and the most respected generally are. But over the past few decades, elections have become much less about visions for a nation, and much more about tapping into the motherlode. Finding the niche demographic that will bring home the win.

It's Politics with a capital P now, where winning is everything.

And we the people are simply pawns on a giant chess board.

Until of course the election is over, and someone wins.

Then we're forgotten.

Lesson # 5: The sweetness of the sap will linger, long after the wood

has been tapped.

This may sound like a good thing. But bear in mind that "power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely". Have you ever noticed how quickly

young and perky politicians turn gray and wrinkly?

They find a comfy cushion on the back bench,

and that's the last we ever hear of them!

Sad. But true.

Don't let this happen to you!

No, you must maintain your flight feathers, and be ready to launch into action at

a second's notice. Seize the light the minute fortune shines on you,

and be ready to fly. Go the distance. Do the right thing.

Lesson # 6. Do sweat the small stuff.

It's the little gestures, the honesty effort, the commitment, and the confidence to fly against the wind that will cast the longest shadow, and cause people to remember your name long after you've left the jungle.

Oh baby, it's a wild world. Hard to get by just upon a smile.

The Essentials

2011-03-20T18:58:00.001-04:00

Between here and there, and then and now so much has happened that it's difficult to capture it all and decant it.

For starters, there is Cuba.

Impossibly blue. Filled with possibility.

And dignified struggle.

Pushing a cart of beachwear, or casting a net for sardines

the clock moves much slower in this world.

Tourists have taken over the edges, but nature takes notes and marks the

trails where it's safe to wander.

Most of the time.

On the day of the earthquake in Japan, and thousands of miles away

on Veradero beach, a cold front moved in and sent the happy holidayers

sprinting for shelter.

It was a magnificent moment. Nature -1. Sunbathers - 0.

Away from the edge, and into the woods, the struggle is relentless

and the termites never stop.

Their home is impermeable to the winds and rains and seasons and tourists.

Awesome.

The bees have figured it out too. And on this rock, they built their home.

Safe from the scrabble and the scrambling of other creatures.

Essential.

And sweet.

Like Cuba.

Ready. Really.

2011-02-28T20:59:00.001-05:00

This is the last day of February, and thanks to the modern miracles of technology and the Weather Network, I can just sit here in the frozen hinterland and hear all about the warm winds wafting over Bahamas, the "thunder'n' woodcocks" in Ohio, the balmy breezes off Key West, Florida.

But up here? We're still waiting.

Bursting with hope, and patient for the breeze that will unlock

these pregnant pods, and then bring me a Monarch's kiss.

While the band's bus sits. Tired, retired and rusty. Consigned to the field.

Waiting for the rhythm and the beat and the pulse of the music to echo on a warm spring night. Listening for the crickets and the peepers.

Lines have been drawn. Stones offered up where before there were none.

If you're going to mend me, and help me to delineate your boundaries,

then now would be a good time.

I am waiting.

And sitting on the fence is not a decision.

A scratch, and nuzzle, a whisper, a hug.

Please.

I'm waiting.

We see you everyday. We leave traces and tracks.

But you never follow.

Our trails will disappear, and you won't know where we've gone.

But we will be busy. And you'll want to know.

We'll wait for you in the still of the evening,

down where the creek meets the river and the trickle becomes our sweet treat.

And then one day comes the moment of no return.

And for a singular, frozen second complete freedom reigns.

The waiting is over.

And it's time to make a splash.

Bring it.

Wait for the Signs

2011-02-18T07:15:00.001-05:00

And then the day finally arrives when the sky falls,
the fog rolls in, and if you're a hockey player, you sit
on a soggy snowbank and know the season's done.

And if you're a porcupine, you go out on a limb

to nibble at some frozen bark, wishing it were more

like the size of a hockey stick.

Spring is starting to stretch her arms.

See more scenes at http://skyley.blogspot.com/

These Matter

2011-02-13T16:13:00.001-05:00

What matters most?

I need nourishing food to eat.
Clear water to drink.
Clean air to breathe.

I need company.
Companionship.
A flock.

I need caring.
I need to care.

Peace within me.
And peace around me.

Freedom.
Choice.
Dignity.

Flights of fancy.
And wings to carry me away.
And bring me back.

Home.

These matter.

Lunch is Ready

2011-02-06T09:57:00.000-05:00

Having been away for the better part of the week, during which time there

had also been a significant snowfall, I came home to empty feeders

in need of replenishing.

First step: clearing a bit of snow off the porch...

One of the pleasures of feeding is that the local birds that overwinter get to know you. As soon as I step outside, they magically appear and start chattering away to bring in the rest of the neighbourhood who might have missed the fact that the two legged creature with big, bulky, funny coloured feathers was outside holding goodies in her five pronged claws.

No sooner up, then they're at'em. Shelled nuts for nuthatches, chickadees, woodpeckers, jays...they pretty much all love them.

Kids and peanut butter.

They're reasonably well behaved, and take turns.

'course if you have a wee beak, like a Redpoll, you don't have to wait for any nuts, you can go directly to the finer seed, like nyger.

And there's no waiting particularly, because it sprinkles all over the place.

The nuthatches eat lots of peanuts..which considering the nut is almost as big as its little head is quite a good trick.

They wait in on line for their turns.

and keeping an eye on all of the proceedings is PW, waiting on the far side of the tree, not realizing that the bright red cone is a beacon. I see ya!

Black sunflower, nyger, shelled (and often unshelled as well) nuts, finch mix, suet, and water- that'll do it and you too can have a flock of featherbrained friends- who frankly, are often more entertaining than homo sapiens.

Chip Off the Old Block

2011-01-30T16:43:00.001-05:00

Today was a sunny winter day, crisp but no wind, a perfect day for a look around the yard. It was also a perfect day to climb up a tree

and beat the pulp out of it

...if you're a Pileated Woodpecker of course.

There is no mistaking the sound of a Pileated Woodpecker pounding the living bugs out of a branch. They move purposely up one branch, and then another, foraging their way through the woods.

There is no such thing as subtlety either. This is a bird that knows what he wants, and will go to great lengths to get it. Chip-off-the-old-block is his middle name. And he leaves large chips of bark
and wood all over the ground -a sure sign of his visit.

In Pete Dunne's Essential Field Guide Companion, he calls the Pileated Woodpecker (aka Dryocopus pileatus) the slightly unseemly

Log Cock.

But if you think about it, there's the Cock of the Walk - or the flamboyant rooster who is master of the chicks.

And this guy, old Chip, is definitely the biggest bird on the tree

in this neck of the woods!

So Log Cock it is - A finely feathered pecker indeed.

Owl Be Seeing You

2011-01-22T16:57:00.001-05:00

As we were driving along Hwy# 148, something caught my eye...something that didn't quite belong, and immediately signaled the inner bird alert.

I ~~yelled~~ politely asked John to slow down, and turn the car around ~~immediately~~ whenever it was convenient. Which he did.

Can you see it? (Yes, it's there!)

Having been birding for several years now, my eyes automatically scan the sides of roads, tops of trees, fence lines...looking for shapes that don't quite fit,

as in this case a football sitting on a branch.

A football? That doesn't make any sense! The season ended here ages ago, and besides, a football isn't as fluffy.

Must be, I hope it is, I think it is, turn the car around now!! It's an owl!

As we turned around, I'm reaching for camera and the binoculars (never leave home without them...bird nerd, I know!), so I'm ready when once again we pull up to the spot we were just seconds ago.

Yay!!! Still there!

It's been three or four years since I've had such a good look at an owl...in this case, a Barred Owl. You know the one...you can often hear him calling on an early spring evening..."Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?"

They're generally nocturnal, so to see one on a bright Saturday afternoon is a thrill. And this guy, not only did he did he not fly away as soon as we parked the car beside the road, he actually flew closer -
wanted a look at us too it seems!

And sat patiently while I adjusted the camera, rolled the window down further, and generally acted like an squirrely tourist!

I remember as a child, my mother reciting this nursery rhyme to me:
A wise old owl sat in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard
Now wasn't he a wise old bird?

I got it then, and I get it now..and perhaps that's why the owl -any owl - is a such favourite of mine. They're just so spectacularly special. They have acheived mythical status -they're wise, they're full of magic, they portend great beginnings and great endings. And they sail to sea with pussycats in beautiful pea green boats.
They're truly a hoot.

The Sue Chef: Fortification Soup

2011-01-15T16:05:00.013-05:00

When it's -8C and the windchill makes it feel more like -21C

and the view out the window looks like this

and only those poor, unfortunate people who got snowshoes for Christmas

feel compelled to be outside,

then that is the time that my thoughts, and those of the creatures around me,

turn to food. From the little nibble notes of the Red Squirrel

to the nutty taste tests by the Blue Jays,

thoughts of food abound.

Perhaps it's a winter thing. A cold thing that makes us yearn for rich, tasty treats, a kitchen redolent with earthy spices, a pot simmering on the stove

and buns in the oven. Pregnant pause here.

Some spicy cooking indeed!

Which is why I'm thrilled with the ability to browse through papers from all over the world, and discover a recipe in the Los Angeles Times that begs to be tested and tasted. A recipe for a soup that a couple had at Bewley's on Grafton Street in Dublin. I've actually been there! And they thought the soup was so exceptional that they asked the food writer at the LA Times to get it for them.

And lo and behold, it's now simmering on my stove too.

I love that about today's technology!

This soup is chock full of vegetables: onions, potatoes, leeks, tomatos,fennel, carrots, and white kidney beans...

My kitchen smells like a place to linger.

To sit and share a bowl of soup,

and a warm cheese scone.

I'll put another log on the fire, and we can enjoy this cold winter's day -

where at least for this hour, and in this place, all is right with the world.

Fortifying the soul on a Saturday afternoon.

Ellis in Wonderland

2011-01-08T22:59:00.000-05:00

In 1965, a British rock group who couldn't think of a name, called themselves The Who and released My Generation. The depth of their lyrics was stunning. Really. Every kid between 10 and 20 thought so. And sadly, 40 years later, they still think there's substance and meaning in this s-s-song for the aaa-gg-ing.

People try to put us d-down (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Just because we get around (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby

Why don't you all f-fade away (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
And don't try to dig what we all s-s-say (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I'm not trying to cause a big s-s-sensation (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

Sometimes I wonder what the archeologists digging among our bones and lost baggage in the year 3011 are going to think. Sometimes even I have trouble reconciling our past with our present.

The dusty old farmer and his favourite team of horses is quickly becoming a romantic image of a kinder, gentler time.

"Kind" and "gentle", of course, have a totally different meaning and context than they do now. Getting up at 6:00 am to
start plowing the field, and sitting on an iron bevelled seat in the rain, the sleet , the hail, and heat while being swarmed by bugs~ not so gentle, not so kind. Different from driving 100 kph down the highway dodging trucks and weary travellers? Yes. Avoiding the driver who's busy texting and talking at the same time, far more dangerous than sitting behind Nelly and Jo, agreed. Definitely.

There are so many stories that this generation hasn't even had the dignity to forget. They didn't even know about it in the first place. And who's left to tell them about the time in 1950's in Newfoundland when a decision was made to bring families in from the outposts, so they'd be easier to manage. Row, row, row your home... a piece of Canadian history quickly archived, but poignantly illustrated in this painting by Ted Stuckless (great name for the painter of this scene, no?)

At another point in our nefarious Canadian history, and again, in the 1950's , the government of Canada decided that it should do something about all the people living in the north. In August of 2010, some 60 years later, a special apology was given by the Government of Canada for the sublime, supreme ignorance it had demonstrated, and the untold pain it had caused, to the indigenous people of the North.

Today, on behalf of the Government of Canada and all Canadians, the Honourable John Duncan, Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development and Federal Interlocutor for Métis and Non-Status Indians, apologized for relocating Inuit from Inukjuak and Pond Inlet to Grise Fiord and Resolute Bay in the High Arctic in the 1950s, and for the hardship, suffering and loss they experienced as a result of the relocation.
"The Government of Canada apologizes for having relocated Inuit families and recognizes that the High Arctic Relocation resulted in extreme hardship and suffering for Inuit who were relocated," said Minister Duncan. "We deeply regret the mistakes and broken promises of this dark chapter of our history."

I recognize the inevitability of change. It is a constant. The cliches reflecting time and changes, ages and stages, and the inevitable march to the edge ring true with poets, painters and authors..no matter Who they may be.

Birds falling from the sky, fish washing up on the shores, and So You ThinkYou Can Dance ...It all appears to be nonsense.

And I fear, Alice, that we have finally fallen through the rabbit hole.

Helllooo?? Anybody here?

Come Closer

2010-12-30T10:19:00.000-05:00

When I lived in the city, my eye would be drawn to bright lights. Winking me into a bar or restaurant for comfort and warmth they often plopped me in places I didn't actually want to be, and I would quickly leave, vaguely disatisfied for having been sucked in. Like a moth to flame.

Not so now.

Now the light is finer, truer, and real. It draws me in and entices me, making me want to linger longer than I should. I am often late.

Some things just demand to be seen.

I can't codify cute. But I know it when I see it. Beauty. Boldness. Something catches my eye, turns my head, and speaks to me.

Often more loudly than it should, and I get swept up in the moment. Attention deficit I am not...perhaps, no actually, the opposite. Attention overload.

I can lose myself in the moment, the memory, the meaning. I am sometimes not present because I am all there.

My favourite walk is right outside my door, full of mystery, signs and signals. It stops me cold in my tracks. I truly cannot understand how others can simply walk on by! But they do, leaving me behind to ponder..what animal? Where was it going? Or was it coming? was it being chased? or chasing? I am chastened by all this. Humbled. Smaller. But more complete.

My inner child is evidently alive
and well. It does not take much to take off on a flight of fancy. And "why?" is a question often asked.

As the crow flies is sometimes just a short little walk out the front door.

I wish you all a wonder full new year!

A Christmas Letter, 1942

2010-12-20T16:07:00.053-05:00

In 1942, the world was at war, and families around the globe were missing loved ones as they celebrated Christmas. The following letter was written by my grandfather, Dr.Arthur Richardson Brown to his children, A.G., Margaret, Eleanor, George and Ruth ....

Lloydminster, Sask.

Christmas Eve, 1942

My Dear Children,

It is Christmas Eve. The house is quiet. No excited voices, no pattering feet disturb our rest. And yet---there are six of you, little Bena Mae in her snow shrouded rest in Saskatoon, Ruth somewhere at home, George in England in the brave garb of the Seaforths, Eleanor cheering her navy lad in Halifax, Margaret in Toronto bearing with fortitude the denial of her heart’s desire but encouraging her brilliant young husband in public service, and our first born A.G. at Ottawa for his first Christmas with Mabel using his fine mind in war research---six whose tiny clinging fingers are forever clasped about our hearts, six whose shining eyes have lighted our many Christmas trees with the “light that never was on land or sea”, six whose echoing laughter still trembles softly on the drums of memory, six gifts of life and charm and hope and love which your beloved mother cradled in her affection and fed with her body and sustained with her unselfish soul. Six of you, six miracles, six demonstrations to prove that love is the secret of the good life, that love is life.

And so despite the miles and miles of lonely prairie, of dark forbidding forest, of weary wastes of water which separates us tonight we are joined in spirit about this family tree and your mother and I once again marvel in the glories and mysteries of life, once again catch the murmuring music of the spheres; for love reaches through and beyond all barriers of space and time; we reach our arms about you, feel “our life’s glow” and watch the twinkling lights of yet another Christmas.

If there is one gift we prize above all others it is the love of our children; if there is one gift we bestow more gladly than all others it is our love for our children; if there is one message we would have them accept and ponder more deeply than all others it is that love is the secret of the good life, that without love there is no meaning in Christmas or living or philosophy, or systems of government or economics or dreams for a new and better world. Knowledge gives us law and order and system
and the mechanics of progress, but love is what dreams are made of, the stuff of nobility and worth, the warming stream which feeds our lives and brings them to
fruition in truth and beauty and purpose.

And so my children, on this Christmas Eve, your mother and I once again tender you our gift of love. May it warm your hearts, enlighten your minds, inspire your souls, and direct your steps along the paths of fruitful and happy living. And we thank you for the privilege of being your parents, for the joy you have given us,
for the inspiration you have been to us, for the proof you
have given that life is good
and that all’s right with this world.

With all our love,

Dad and Mother

All of the people in this letter, with the exception of Ruth,
who is now in her 80's, are gone,
but my Grandfather's words still ring true,
and the greatest gift of all is still Love.
Merry Christmas!

This Hoya started out at my Grandmother's home, and has since been divided and shared. It's at least 35years old, and has blossomed continually since I received my slip two years ago...including this blossom which I just noticed today.

A little gift from Grandma?

Cold Comfort

2010-12-15T15:37:00.001-05:00

As a snowy white blizzard blasts into my world, it changes. Colours, shapes, textures, temperatures, even smells.

There is more, and there is less. More intensity, less lingering.

More softness . Less definition

More shades of gray. Less of every other colour.

This wintery white world envelopes us, and dictates changes

that we must make to survive it.

It slows us down. Insulates. Isolates.

Makes us late.

Until we learn to leave earlier.

Which we do. We slowly adjust.

The first day is always the worst. The topic on everyone's tongue.

Why does - 5C feel frigid in December, and downright balmy in March?

Imagine getting used to that!

But we do.

We are proud to be part of this northern land.

And it gives us cold comfort in return.

U's Gone.

2010-12-07T16:32:00.000-05:00

U’s Gone

I know I pt it somewhere, bt I can’t remember where?

It’s not nder the bed, I know, becase I jst looked there.

It’s not p in the attic, on top of the boxes and bags

They’re missing too becase I moved them

When they sddenly started to sag.

It’s crios withot it, many words don’t look qite right

Sch a simple little joiner with two arms that make things tight

A lovely sbtle sond made when yo prse yor lips

It never stops it’s fsing, wants s joined at the hips!

If yo come across it shortly, please try sending it my way

As I’m trying to end this message

And I don't want to misspell my name!

Ssan.

for more thoghts on the letter above, please go to http://www.abcwednesdayround3.blogspot.com/

Icing from the Inside

2010-11-26T15:00:00.000-05:00

It started with sand being thrown against the window, and soon grew to a steady wave of small pebbles tatooing on the roof. In my dream, I was standing on a beach looking at the clear blue waters of Northumberland Strait and the bridge to Prince Edward Island. Peaceful, but slightly disoriented. As I woke, that vision faded, and was replaced by this one.

When Nature takes your world, and gives it a shake and a polish, you must pay attention.

And so I did.

Cocooned by the soft glow of morning, and unable to see beyond, I was forced to look within.

Nature's artistry leaves me breathless. A haunting golden moment that rises with the sun and lingers just long enough to remind us that we can only see this magic when the paint brush is heavily laden.

A magnified moment, frozen in time and soon to melt away.

for more images, visit Skywatch Friday

http://skyley.blogspot.com/

S and Making Sense of it All

2010-11-23T17:25:00.000-05:00

I have learned about difference. The difference between soft and sweet

and hard and sharp.

I can tell hot from cold and wet from dry...and I know if it's hot and wet, or cold and dry, and what that means...

Is it dark or light or in between?

My senses tell me sweet from sour and they tell me to be wary

I hear the quiet... and the clamour

And I know my world.

It makes sense.

Colours

2010-11-18T21:22:00.000-05:00

As we are about to don our winter whites, the colours of my world are calling.

They beg to be remembered, and so they shall be.

Midnight Grackle Blue

Meets Blueberry Thrill...

Powderpuff melon...

Beckons Cinammon Poulet...

Bright Shiny Spring

Greets the Last Apple Red...

And Bountiful Pumpkin adds spice

To White Winter Trails.

These are my colours.

What colour are you?

R is for Ready. Which I'm not.

2010-11-16T13:26:00.001-05:00

This was the scene on November 26, 2008.

Brilliant red winterberries blanketed by snow.

Are you ready?

Visit other ABC Wednesday posts: http://abcwednesdayround3.blogspot.com/

The Growing Flock

2010-11-14T16:32:00.001-05:00

A friend was over the other day and commented on one of the wading birds on top of the pine cupboard.She wanted to know if I could recall where I bought it. And I could.

In fact, each little wooden wonder has a story to tell, that usually involves a holiday somewhere, a local gift shop, and the search for something unique.

However, it seems that my definition of "unique" is somewhat slanted. Unique means anything birdish...wood, stone, wood and stone. If it has a beak and wings, and a certain charm, then it gets placed on the list of possible acquisitions.

'Course, once people catch wind of the fact that you like carvings of birds, then it's pretty much game on, and the collection begins to take on a life of its own.

A very nice life I might add.

I now have decoys, and carvings, and sox, and boxer shorts, and earrings, and necklaces, and prints and paintings and books, many, many books...and the subject matters is birds.

And of course, there is always room for more.

It's amazing when I stop and look at the 'aviary' that my home has unwittingly become! And when I start to count all of the birds in it, including those in the all the other rooms, not just the kitchen/dining/living area. Well, let's just say, there's more than a baker's dozen. Or four.

I would venture to say that most birders have a similar affliction. If it's got wings, and beak, and it flies...it'll likely end up feathering your nest. And if you don't want it, I think I know someone who can likely find a place for it.

Light of November

2010-11-08T18:40:00.003-05:00

As we hurtle towards the shortest day of the year, light becomes a huge topic of conversation for those of us who live above the 49th parallel.

This weekend, we "fell back", as in turned back the clocks by one hour in order to, to...help kids walk home from school in the sunlight? (Do kids still do that? Aren't they all bussed?) Allow farmers to farrow their fields in the late afternoon? Huh? Their combines now come equipped with lights, and stereo systems, and leather seats, so that's not right. No....no, wait! I think it's the opposite. We "spring forward" for those reasons. I have no idea why we fall back. Because someone in 1926 said we should, before the installation of Sirius Radio on the ol' John Deere? Who knows? I'm sure someone will enlighten me.

But this I do know...

This morning I woke up in the dark, drove to work in the dark.

Came home in the dark. Heard the term Seasonally Affective Disorder (SAD) for the first time this season, and thought about the benefits of being a bear,

sleeping the dark away.

In the meantime, I wait patiently for sunrise,

knowing it will help lighten my mood.

Rust and gold and copper and gray. This is the light of November.

Seeing is Believing

2010-11-04T16:06:00.000-04:00

The beautiful Atlantic marshes in Cape May, New Jersey make me long for super vision, and that's a first!

There were days on this magnificent coast line that it felt surreal, until I realized that it was.

Here's lookin' at you, kid.

for more earthly views, visit http://skyley.blogspot.com/

Good Morning Miss Cellanea

2010-11-02T22:02:00.000-04:00

The past several weeks have been full of work, and more work,

then throw in some work, and that about sums it up.

Holidays are wonderful but there's a price to be paid besides the Visa bill at the end of them. Starts with W. So I haven't had much time to sit and relax, and go through the photo albums that are so easy to build on the computer! Take the camera, go for a drive, take lots of shots, download, name the file, and then...wait 'til there's a spare hour hanging about.

That would be now! Finally!

So going through the album for September, I remember this day clearly.

A soft, misting September morning.

Quiet. Perfect day to grab the bins, the books, a bun

and just go.

The Ottawa Valley is a perfect place to ramble. Rolling meadows, roadside streams, very little traffic once you're off the main highway. You can take your time and look to see what the ditches have to offer.

Obviously well used, and right in the middle of a raspberry patch?

It's all about location, location, location.

Just beyond I spy a sure sign that summer is over, and birds of a feather

are making flight plans.

The signs were everywhere on this day. Some less subtle than others.

Obviously, this is where I was meant to stop.

A place to have a little picnic - or catch one if you can.

The area was originally settled in the 1800's, as loggers and farmers and merchants came to the Ottawa Valley in search of the tall stands of timber. It was a tough life, that spared no one. Coming across small family plots overgrown and unkempt is not an everyday event, but nor is it that rare.

This particular road is an old one, and it was likely once an animal trail,

that followed the river. It still is rich with life.

The hunted and the hunters dwell here.

They know they're being watched.

By this guy.

While the chickadees hunt juicy little seeds and berries, and

the Great Blue Heron heads to the next fishing hole.

It's all a matter of perspective. Yours. Mine. Theirs.

Life and death. Daily dramas.

Food for thought.

Courting Good Behaviour

2010-10-22T16:21:00.001-04:00

The beautiful Superior Courthouse in our town recently received an international Building of the Year award, in recognition of the outstanding renovation, restoration and heritage conservation that has taken place in the building in the past few years. It is truly a magnificent structure, that by its very presence says Justice Lives Here.

The building was originally built in the mid-1800's, and was in need of upgrading...bringing it into compliance with the modern building codes and security standards necessary to keep the the judges and lawyers and victims safely separated from the criminals. Crime has changed in the past 150 years, and so to have it's perpetrators. The architects and designers tried to show this in their renewal efforts.

Still stately, a place where the weight of the world often sits on the shoulders of those in this courtroom,

pondering the depth of the crimes and misdemeanors.

Now, it's also bullet proof, and there are emergency panic buttons if the need arises.

The light shines softly through the windows, and seeks hidden channels so that it can reach the inner depths of the building and shed a little more light within.

The quiet shadow land of the interior court is a place to reflect.

And, if you're about to be sent to jail, a place to be very, very happy that our criminal justice system decided it was too harsh on the criminals when they were sentenced to a term in what are now euphemistically called "heritage jail cells".

Imagine spending time in here?

Approximately 4 ft. by 8 ft. No windows. A brick platform to dream on. A tiny cubby hole for your slop pot.

No TV. No computer. No lights. When it's dark, that's where you are.

A place to contemplate the reason that all of society's privileges have been removed.

But it's been deemed too hard and horrid a place, and relegated to history.

But there are some criminals that I think it suits perfectly.

It's a good place for a disgraced, depraved, serial rapist and double murderer who once was a Colonel.

A Walk Around the Neighborhood

2010-10-17T23:10:00.000-04:00

Today was one of those picture perfect days, an apple of a day, a day to celebrate being alive! Cool, clear blue skies, soft southerly winds, and best of all, a Sunday, so nothing to do but enjoy it.
We live in eastern Ontario -the Ottawa Valley, which is a little slice of heaven on the shores of the Ottawa River. I brought my camera along on this morning's walk so I could show you my neighbourhood...
First - the walk out the back door, towards the driveway...and right past the coming winter's warmth:

Yup. We heat with wood (and electric when we're lazy). There's tons of it around, and it means you can open the doors on a cold day to cool

the house down, and not feel guilty.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself here,

Our driveway is beautiful.

There comes a day, every year when the trees just give up their gold.

And let it fall. Today was that day.

There's always a few hold outs... waiting to be the last leaf to fall.

The sidewalks in my neighbourhood are not paved with cement.

They lure me, lead me and make me walk slowly. I do not wear a watch.

I wander down the "sidewalk" and check out the block.

The view of the main drag, so to speak...

Like any urban area, we have to contend with litter:

So many of them! And the smell is evocative of childhood. Rich, earthy, ripe scents of yesterday and filled with promises for tomorrow.

Today, I found plants that weren't quite ready for winter...

Still blooming, defying the odds. How like a daisy-cle.

The lane to our home is not paved with good intentions.

It's simply winding and welcomes me every time I'm on it.

The front yard is inviting too.

I sit and watch which way the wind blows,

while the leaves dance.

Company's Coming. Now We're Cookin'

2010-10-14T21:10:00.001-04:00

Well! My last post led me smack up against a brick wall- nary a thought shared nor a comment posted. So I have to now admit that sidewalk embellishments are more of a niche topic, and I shall send the post off to a bunch of urban planners. They may enjoy it.

In the mean time, I hope you all feel like eating. Food is a topic I love. Not only do I love eating, I love growing it, foraging for it, talking about preparation methods, and ultimately cooking it.
I am not one of those people who eat to live. No, I live to eat. But I will never suffer from being too thin. (Or too rich sadly). However, I digress.

I achieve almost the same meditative state I get from taking a walk in the woods with my camera and binoculars when I'm in the kitchen, preparing something special. Not just anything though...the daily drudge does not induce peace. Just plain ol' boredom. As in ho hum, another supper, I wish they'd invent new food and I wish I could find the genie in the olive oil bottle, and he could do the dinner drive.
BUT! when company's coming, that's a whole other bag of groceries!

And so tonight, having first served frozen fish sticks and coleslaw (see what I mean? Pure drudgery), I am now cooking up a storm for guests who are coming for dinner tomorrow night.

On the menu:

Warm olives with orange slices, cheese and seeded crackers
Roasted Eggplant and Tomato Soup
Mushroom Lasagne

Spinach, Pear and Pancetta Salad

Strawberry Rhubarb Vanilla Yogurt

The soup is first up, and is pretty easy peasy...roast the veg to bring out the flavours, simmer in stock, puree, done.

I have never made this before, but it sounds delicious, I love eggplant, garlic , onion and tomato, so it should be tasty. Should may be the operative word here. We'll see.
It's not that I like to experiment on my guests, it's that having guests ignites the creative cook within. And I have difficulty following specific directions and cooking within the pot so to speak. Sometimes the results are disastrous...but not always.

Bathed with olive oil, it's into the oven the veggies go for some flavour intensification. The kitchen smells incredible as they mingle in the heat.

Once they've softened up somewhat, and browned a little, then it's time to make formal introductions and let them dance together in a slow simmering pot filled with a tangy broth with accents of cumin, pepper, and thyme...I'm making myself hungry here!

The flavour is rich, full bodied, earthy with a tangy lemon accent and back notes of pepper. It tastes wonderful as it's simmering away, but truthfully, doesn't look all that swell. The eggplant is quite stringy, a gelatinous mass. I suspect once it's all pureed it will be a caramel colour..a bit odd for soup..but the taste! That will overide the visual, and I'll be sure to serve it by candle light.

or maybe in full light. Bon appetit!

...to be continued.

All Around the Circle.

2010-10-13T15:14:00.000-04:00

When we began paving paradise a few centuries ago in North America there were craftsmen hired to do the job. They took pride in their work and despite it being back breaking, they also tried to inject some creativity into the paving stones so that they would smooth the way, both literally and figuratively.

This wavy tile treatment is a fabulous example of form meeting function! The steel grate serves two purposes: it warns the pedestrians that the cross walk is near, and it drains water away from under their feet.

These bubble bricks do much the same thing, notifying the blind and those in wheelchairs to be careful and watch for passing traffic. Someone was thinking with both sides of his (or her) brain. And while the good councillors of the day may have ranted and raved about the costs of careful construction, I'd lay odds that thousands of lives - and dollars - have been saved as a result of these design considerations.

And who ever said that stair risers couldn't be attractive; adding greenery and life to a concrete and clay landscpape?

I want to walk up these stairs.

Or these ones...

The idea of letting nature assist, especially after bulldozing most of it away, is a good one.

Creating spaces that suit humans, plants and animals is a challenge.

One that some cities, like Savannah, seem to be better at than others.

I thought at first, how funny! They think that dogs can read...then I realized

how far some people will lower

themselves for a drink.

This little guy's quenching the thirsty child within.

Travel. See. More.