It is hard to believe that almost nine months have passed since I last blogged! If I was trying to write a novel, the publisher's patience would be sorely tested, but as it's only me who reads this, then I can tap away at the keys in my own time without fear of reprisal.
Interestingly, I come to this blog with a sense of peace I never thought I'd have, and a new appreciation of nature and the elements. The rural bug induces a feeling of calm, coupled with a feeling of anticipation and excitement everyday; there is just so much to do.
Writing outside on my deck in the setting sun, I am accompanied by a hummingbird feasting on the plants in my hanging basket and a hawk hovering high in the sky waiting for supper to scurry into view among the tall grasses. It is peaceful and serene. The scorching heat of the day has been replaced by a pleasant balmy evening and out in the farmers field, mummy and daddy geese are standing over their five offspring as they peck in the dirt.
The peace I talk about is to be savoured; there are times however when it is shattered! Take for example, Sunday morning at seven thirty. Into my dreams of being an independently wealthy playgirl, sipping Champagne on a luxury yacht, comes the raucous honking of the two aforementioned geese. For reasons only fathomable by the goose community, they have decided my roof is the best place for a date and above my bedroom window they commence to let all of their goosey friends know that they are happy and in love. Aside from the honking, is the apparent tap-dancing of four web-feet as they perform a routine not unlike Riverdance. I leap out of bed and, stopping only to make sure I am dressed decently, dash outside to the back garden where I clap, shout, and run at the house waving my arms forcing the dancing geese to flee to the safety of the skies, honking their disapproval at the harsh treatment. In truth, I know they are winking at me and saying in goose language, "we'll be back."
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Friday, August 19, 2011
There's Deer in Them There Woods
When we bought the house back in March, having never seen the place without a film of drizzle or torrential rain around it, the realtor regaled us with tales about the deer that live in the woods beyond. I remember doing my share of "oohing" and "wowing" and possible a few "no way?"'s, but having lived in suburbia for the past 12 years, it seemed a bit of a romantic selling spiel.
Well, I have had my cynisicm well and truly silenced. From the first sighting on moving day of the elegant creatures that make the woods behind the house their home, I became fascinated by the concept of living so close to nature. Daily, at twilight, big brown eyes peeped cautiously from the protection of the tall trees, then drawn by the desire to nibble the new shoots of the farmer's crops, they timidly step out of the gloom and into the open sunshine of the field.
Sometimes one or two, occasionally a whole family come to feast. Their coats shine glossy in the sun, the colour of golden syrup, and perky white tails twitch with exctement as they eat. Oblivious to the thrills they offer for the humans that stop cars on the road to watch them, binoculars and zoom lenses poised. They are indifferent. All they know is to fill their bellies and have some fun.
While gazing out the window this week, I was treated to a parade of these elegant animals as they ran the length of the woods, kicking, leaping, joyful, until they turned and darted back into the safety of the trees. And now, I get the thrill that everyone talked about back in March. Living alongside nature, brings about a certain joi de vivre. It makes me stop and think. When did I last kick up my heels just for the hell of it? How often did I gaze at the sky and invent shapes from the clouds? Well, the country has the ability to make us city folk look small. The sky is bigger, the sunrises and sunsets could make a person forget everything but how to drink in the beauty and natural splendour that costs nothing.
It's a humbling experience to have to relearn all that you thought you knew. As the crickets sing into the twilight and the light fades on my ability to type, I drain my wine and head inside. I know that tonight, as the garden becomes a lively moonscape of frogs, bats, and barnyard cats, I will sleep on oblivious, knowing that for all the challenges, I have finally come home.
Well, I have had my cynisicm well and truly silenced. From the first sighting on moving day of the elegant creatures that make the woods behind the house their home, I became fascinated by the concept of living so close to nature. Daily, at twilight, big brown eyes peeped cautiously from the protection of the tall trees, then drawn by the desire to nibble the new shoots of the farmer's crops, they timidly step out of the gloom and into the open sunshine of the field.
Sometimes one or two, occasionally a whole family come to feast. Their coats shine glossy in the sun, the colour of golden syrup, and perky white tails twitch with exctement as they eat. Oblivious to the thrills they offer for the humans that stop cars on the road to watch them, binoculars and zoom lenses poised. They are indifferent. All they know is to fill their bellies and have some fun.
While gazing out the window this week, I was treated to a parade of these elegant animals as they ran the length of the woods, kicking, leaping, joyful, until they turned and darted back into the safety of the trees. And now, I get the thrill that everyone talked about back in March. Living alongside nature, brings about a certain joi de vivre. It makes me stop and think. When did I last kick up my heels just for the hell of it? How often did I gaze at the sky and invent shapes from the clouds? Well, the country has the ability to make us city folk look small. The sky is bigger, the sunrises and sunsets could make a person forget everything but how to drink in the beauty and natural splendour that costs nothing.
It's a humbling experience to have to relearn all that you thought you knew. As the crickets sing into the twilight and the light fades on my ability to type, I drain my wine and head inside. I know that tonight, as the garden becomes a lively moonscape of frogs, bats, and barnyard cats, I will sleep on oblivious, knowing that for all the challenges, I have finally come home.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Bats, Cats, Creepy Crawlies And Things That Go Bump In The Night
I have come to realize in the month since we became "country folk" versus "city folk" (so named by the locals), that people, critters and insects live in a codependency harmony.
Sharing the shower last night with Itsy Bitsy who obviously crawled up the water spout, I paid respect to his powers of tenacity by not immediately screaming and flushing him down the loo. Instead, we both got on with what we there to do; myself to wash off a day's country grime, and his to hang on for dear life and avoid low-flying shampoo suds. I didn't shriek when his eight black legs crept cautiously toward me, I simply hummed the tune from the Great Escape and looked out of the window. (Yes, the bathroom has a window! Wow!) I left him there to his own devices, to feast on the many tiny, and some not so tiny flies that zoom uninvited into the house whenever a door is opened, and land on any food or drink that are left exposed.
Now I heard somewhere, probably from the man that delivers the water, that it is helpful, nay, downright essential to have bats in the garden. Apparently, they love mosquitoes and enjoy nothing more than feasting on those annoying, buzzing, itch-inducing vampires. So, it was with great delight that we said hello to Batty, the night watch-bat who hangs on the wall in the front porch. He arrives at dusk and is gone by morning, but he's there now, watching, and waiting for his stomach to growl, so he can swoop into the night and enjoy breakfast. I noticed this evening that he looks rather like a mouse with his wings all curled tightly at his side, cute, in a macabre sort of way. However, the minute he develops fangs and turns into Christopher Lee, I'll be smelting my silver candlesticks to make a stake.
So that brings me to the real mice. The ones that don't fly, but run out of the fields and into the house when the cool weather starts. In order to prevent this, I'm told by many sources that I need a cat. Well, as if by some telepathic means of request, into our garden arrives a cat on day four. He, or she, not yet sure, stalks through the long grass around the edges of the property, hackles raised and ready to pounce. Cat, is white with black splodges across her back and face. She isn't particularly interested in friendship, which is fine by me, but I'm told we should be good to her because of a probable mouse infestation in the fall. Cat then, will be provided with food in the garage, and an occasional bowl of milk, We're to treat her as a "barn cat" but as we don't have a barn, I'm presuming the garage will do.
As I write this, in the washing-up bowl is a furry yellow caterpillar trying very hard to climb up the slippery slope that has been lined lovingly with dandelion leaves and a drop or two of water by my son.
"George", with his fluffy body and tiny legs, has provided an eight year old with hours of enjoyment today. What is somewhat surprising is that poor old George hasn't died of fright in the hands of my eager, fascinated son.
It does take an adjustment moving from the safety of being one house joined to a row of others to living like a lone wolf surrounded by fields of mice with only the bats for company. But, I was doing fairly well with it. Today, however, I learned from one of my neighbours that I should have a dog. Not just any old dog, but a dog with a very deep voice, to keep away any unwanted prowlers. This is, he assured me the only thing that will deter intruders.
Tomorrow, I will look for the biggest most intimidating dog available to scare away any burglars. One bark from Big Dog will also chase away the cat, allowing the mice to build cosy homes in the walls who in turn will compete with the bat in 'Who Can Make The Most Droppings A Day' competition. There is certainly never a dull moment.
Tomorrow, "Out with the old: a trip to the local waste management site"
Sharing the shower last night with Itsy Bitsy who obviously crawled up the water spout, I paid respect to his powers of tenacity by not immediately screaming and flushing him down the loo. Instead, we both got on with what we there to do; myself to wash off a day's country grime, and his to hang on for dear life and avoid low-flying shampoo suds. I didn't shriek when his eight black legs crept cautiously toward me, I simply hummed the tune from the Great Escape and looked out of the window. (Yes, the bathroom has a window! Wow!) I left him there to his own devices, to feast on the many tiny, and some not so tiny flies that zoom uninvited into the house whenever a door is opened, and land on any food or drink that are left exposed.
Now I heard somewhere, probably from the man that delivers the water, that it is helpful, nay, downright essential to have bats in the garden. Apparently, they love mosquitoes and enjoy nothing more than feasting on those annoying, buzzing, itch-inducing vampires. So, it was with great delight that we said hello to Batty, the night watch-bat who hangs on the wall in the front porch. He arrives at dusk and is gone by morning, but he's there now, watching, and waiting for his stomach to growl, so he can swoop into the night and enjoy breakfast. I noticed this evening that he looks rather like a mouse with his wings all curled tightly at his side, cute, in a macabre sort of way. However, the minute he develops fangs and turns into Christopher Lee, I'll be smelting my silver candlesticks to make a stake.
So that brings me to the real mice. The ones that don't fly, but run out of the fields and into the house when the cool weather starts. In order to prevent this, I'm told by many sources that I need a cat. Well, as if by some telepathic means of request, into our garden arrives a cat on day four. He, or she, not yet sure, stalks through the long grass around the edges of the property, hackles raised and ready to pounce. Cat, is white with black splodges across her back and face. She isn't particularly interested in friendship, which is fine by me, but I'm told we should be good to her because of a probable mouse infestation in the fall. Cat then, will be provided with food in the garage, and an occasional bowl of milk, We're to treat her as a "barn cat" but as we don't have a barn, I'm presuming the garage will do.
As I write this, in the washing-up bowl is a furry yellow caterpillar trying very hard to climb up the slippery slope that has been lined lovingly with dandelion leaves and a drop or two of water by my son.
"George", with his fluffy body and tiny legs, has provided an eight year old with hours of enjoyment today. What is somewhat surprising is that poor old George hasn't died of fright in the hands of my eager, fascinated son.
It does take an adjustment moving from the safety of being one house joined to a row of others to living like a lone wolf surrounded by fields of mice with only the bats for company. But, I was doing fairly well with it. Today, however, I learned from one of my neighbours that I should have a dog. Not just any old dog, but a dog with a very deep voice, to keep away any unwanted prowlers. This is, he assured me the only thing that will deter intruders.
Tomorrow, I will look for the biggest most intimidating dog available to scare away any burglars. One bark from Big Dog will also chase away the cat, allowing the mice to build cosy homes in the walls who in turn will compete with the bat in 'Who Can Make The Most Droppings A Day' competition. There is certainly never a dull moment.
Tomorrow, "Out with the old: a trip to the local waste management site"
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Eggs Over Easy
I sincerely believe that moving house should come with a government health warning. The challenges of functioning in a different house have a right to be documented in research as one of the great anxiety provoking happenings of the 21st century, along with births, deaths and marriages. Added to which, coping in rural compared to urban areas, requires a resilience and tolerance of the limitations of technology and infrastructure.
Imagine the scene for a moment. It was day three in our new place in the country. The adults i.e. hubby and I worked hard all day moving furniture, unpacking as many of the 150 boxes as we could while the kids ran around finding homes for their stuff, and playing as many different games as possible outside in the grassy land they now called home.
By 6 pm we were all hungry, tired and hot. With the air conditioner cranked, the kids clamoured for dinner. In the fridge bacon, eggs, bread and tomatoes were all that sat between us and starvation. With little choice, the menu obviously became "breakfast for dinner". So, without any more fuss, bacon and sliced tomatoes sizzled deliciously in the skillet and hubby lovingly fried a few large eggs the old fashioned way in a pan on the stove. To prevent the "greasy spoon" atmosphere, we set the over-the-range-fan to a low roar.
Bacon, of any description, when fried, is hard to ignore. The tantalizing smell encroached on the hedonistic centres of my brain making me a slave to its powerful persuasions, and my stomach growled in anticipation. As the aromas curled around the kitchen, we popped the bread in the toaster. The kids threw cutlery on the table asking every minute was dinner ready yet, but as the hunger grew in our bellies and the anticipation swelled, the power went out.
Hubby, at a crucial point in the over-easy finishing of the eggs, looked at me in panic, as I flipped the tomato slices.
"What happened?" he asked. Although why he thought I would know seemed a bit of a mystery to me.
"I don't know." I admitted as we looked at each other wide-eyed. Had the children not been in ear-shot, "oh crap" would have been the first words from my lips. Staring at the much needed food going slowly cold before me, I cursed the fact that I knew nothing about this home's electrical system and the fact that I had made a career out of health sciences and not home construction seemed a little stupid to me now.
"Perhaps the toaster tripped the fuse." I finally manage to say with some conviction as we both watched the partly cooked food congealing in the pans. "Yes. Of course. That's what happened. I'll be right back." I skipped down the basement stairs feeling all grown up and clever that I knew how to save the day, or at least the eggs. When I got to the scary grey box that I'd learned from the home inspector held a 200 amp fuse from the main hydro grid with enough power to kill me, I took a big breath and opened the circuit breaker panel.
As dust and dead bees dropped at my feet, I stifled a scream in case hubby thought I'd electrocuted myself. After ensuring I was not aggravating a live insect nest, I gazed at the two rows of switches with unintelligible numeration and description beside them. "Oh crap"! I thought for the second time in five minutes, which one do I flip? For those who have a lot more experience with electrics or were blessed with the type of mind that can figure out practical things without a manual, then you will chuckle and say "just like a woman, blond" - insert your own metaphor, however, not being blessed with either of the aforementioned skills, it took me a minute or two to realize that the tripped fuse shows red in the little box beside it. Ah ha! And within seconds of flipping that switch I heard the roar of the fan, and gleeful cries from hubby.
So, our dinner that night was breakfast; the egg yolks had turned hard and the tomatoes were barely brown, and yet it was delicious. A lesson had been learned and we now know that our kitchen, particularly in the corner by the stove, cannot be pushed beyond it's limits, and, if I want to cook eggs to perfection, it is possible that thanks to this summer's blazing "heat dome", I might do a better job on the pathway outside the back door.
Imagine the scene for a moment. It was day three in our new place in the country. The adults i.e. hubby and I worked hard all day moving furniture, unpacking as many of the 150 boxes as we could while the kids ran around finding homes for their stuff, and playing as many different games as possible outside in the grassy land they now called home.
By 6 pm we were all hungry, tired and hot. With the air conditioner cranked, the kids clamoured for dinner. In the fridge bacon, eggs, bread and tomatoes were all that sat between us and starvation. With little choice, the menu obviously became "breakfast for dinner". So, without any more fuss, bacon and sliced tomatoes sizzled deliciously in the skillet and hubby lovingly fried a few large eggs the old fashioned way in a pan on the stove. To prevent the "greasy spoon" atmosphere, we set the over-the-range-fan to a low roar.
Bacon, of any description, when fried, is hard to ignore. The tantalizing smell encroached on the hedonistic centres of my brain making me a slave to its powerful persuasions, and my stomach growled in anticipation. As the aromas curled around the kitchen, we popped the bread in the toaster. The kids threw cutlery on the table asking every minute was dinner ready yet, but as the hunger grew in our bellies and the anticipation swelled, the power went out.
Hubby, at a crucial point in the over-easy finishing of the eggs, looked at me in panic, as I flipped the tomato slices.
"What happened?" he asked. Although why he thought I would know seemed a bit of a mystery to me.
"I don't know." I admitted as we looked at each other wide-eyed. Had the children not been in ear-shot, "oh crap" would have been the first words from my lips. Staring at the much needed food going slowly cold before me, I cursed the fact that I knew nothing about this home's electrical system and the fact that I had made a career out of health sciences and not home construction seemed a little stupid to me now.
"Perhaps the toaster tripped the fuse." I finally manage to say with some conviction as we both watched the partly cooked food congealing in the pans. "Yes. Of course. That's what happened. I'll be right back." I skipped down the basement stairs feeling all grown up and clever that I knew how to save the day, or at least the eggs. When I got to the scary grey box that I'd learned from the home inspector held a 200 amp fuse from the main hydro grid with enough power to kill me, I took a big breath and opened the circuit breaker panel.
As dust and dead bees dropped at my feet, I stifled a scream in case hubby thought I'd electrocuted myself. After ensuring I was not aggravating a live insect nest, I gazed at the two rows of switches with unintelligible numeration and description beside them. "Oh crap"! I thought for the second time in five minutes, which one do I flip? For those who have a lot more experience with electrics or were blessed with the type of mind that can figure out practical things without a manual, then you will chuckle and say "just like a woman, blond" - insert your own metaphor, however, not being blessed with either of the aforementioned skills, it took me a minute or two to realize that the tripped fuse shows red in the little box beside it. Ah ha! And within seconds of flipping that switch I heard the roar of the fan, and gleeful cries from hubby.
So, our dinner that night was breakfast; the egg yolks had turned hard and the tomatoes were barely brown, and yet it was delicious. A lesson had been learned and we now know that our kitchen, particularly in the corner by the stove, cannot be pushed beyond it's limits, and, if I want to cook eggs to perfection, it is possible that thanks to this summer's blazing "heat dome", I might do a better job on the pathway outside the back door.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
City Folk On The Move
"My old man, said 'foller the van, and don't dilly-dally on the way!'
Off went the van with me 'ome packed innit.
I walked be'ind wiv me old cock linnet.
But I dillied and dallied,
Dallied and I dillied,
Lost me way and don't know where to roam...."
(Charles Collins/Fred W. Leigh)
And that's what happened, on Friday July the 8th 2001. Unfortunately for my two kids who at 11 (going on 16) and 8 (still thankfully 8), were subjected to my off-key rendition, and having never lived within the sound of Bow Bells, were very unimpressed by my warbling in what seemed like a foreign language!
"Are those real words Mom?" Emma, the eldest and most apt to bring me back to reality with a resounding crash asked with a curl of her extremely flexible upper lip.
"Of course they're real words" I told her, "it's how folk speak over in London England." It's testament to the length of time I've been here that I now easily add the "England" when speaking of London as they do here in Ontario. But enough of the singing and back to the beginning.
"It's too small!" I'd proclaimed in shock when seeing the first truck roll up at 9:20 that morning. My anxiety, starting to rise above acceptable levels, sent my voice a little higher too, but I was put firmly in my place by Sam the mover who informed me that the street we were starting at was too small for a big truck, so two smaller ones were the only way to go.
Finally we all pulled out of the street we'd called home for the past 13 years. The neighbours waved; the little girl next-door-but-one cried in great gulping sobs as she ran with the car to the main road, waving us off in good style. If I hadn't been so stressed, I might have sobbed with her.
The trucks had zoomed out first, with their occupants who had sweat gallons in the stifling heat emptying our three storey town home. They planned to pick up lunch and meet us in Grimsby, 35 kilometers further west. My hubby went next in our van, and myself and the kids attempted to keep up in the car.
To say we were all fully loaded would have been understating the obvious! (and not a drop of alcohol in sight:) Frozen buns, stir-fry veg and chicken thighs rammed unceremoniously into a bag, sat on the passenger seat as the thermometer registered a balmy 29 degrees C. Only then did I realize my error in packing the cooler in a box almost a week earlier. To try and prevent instant defrost, the air con was cranked and we were on the way.
Entering the highway from the ramp, my happy rendition of "My Old Man" was brought to a dramatic stop when I realized that all three lanes ground to an unexplainable halt. So, as the song says, the dallying and dillying started.
It took over an hour to travel a 30 minute journey. Miraculously I did remember to pick up lunch for us all, finally arriving at the new house while the unloading of the trucks was already well underway:)
Off went the van with me 'ome packed innit.
I walked be'ind wiv me old cock linnet.
But I dillied and dallied,
Dallied and I dillied,
Lost me way and don't know where to roam...."
(Charles Collins/Fred W. Leigh)
And that's what happened, on Friday July the 8th 2001. Unfortunately for my two kids who at 11 (going on 16) and 8 (still thankfully 8), were subjected to my off-key rendition, and having never lived within the sound of Bow Bells, were very unimpressed by my warbling in what seemed like a foreign language!
"Are those real words Mom?" Emma, the eldest and most apt to bring me back to reality with a resounding crash asked with a curl of her extremely flexible upper lip.
"Of course they're real words" I told her, "it's how folk speak over in London England." It's testament to the length of time I've been here that I now easily add the "England" when speaking of London as they do here in Ontario. But enough of the singing and back to the beginning.
"It's too small!" I'd proclaimed in shock when seeing the first truck roll up at 9:20 that morning. My anxiety, starting to rise above acceptable levels, sent my voice a little higher too, but I was put firmly in my place by Sam the mover who informed me that the street we were starting at was too small for a big truck, so two smaller ones were the only way to go.
Finally we all pulled out of the street we'd called home for the past 13 years. The neighbours waved; the little girl next-door-but-one cried in great gulping sobs as she ran with the car to the main road, waving us off in good style. If I hadn't been so stressed, I might have sobbed with her.
The trucks had zoomed out first, with their occupants who had sweat gallons in the stifling heat emptying our three storey town home. They planned to pick up lunch and meet us in Grimsby, 35 kilometers further west. My hubby went next in our van, and myself and the kids attempted to keep up in the car.
To say we were all fully loaded would have been understating the obvious! (and not a drop of alcohol in sight:) Frozen buns, stir-fry veg and chicken thighs rammed unceremoniously into a bag, sat on the passenger seat as the thermometer registered a balmy 29 degrees C. Only then did I realize my error in packing the cooler in a box almost a week earlier. To try and prevent instant defrost, the air con was cranked and we were on the way.
Entering the highway from the ramp, my happy rendition of "My Old Man" was brought to a dramatic stop when I realized that all three lanes ground to an unexplainable halt. So, as the song says, the dallying and dillying started.
It took over an hour to travel a 30 minute journey. Miraculously I did remember to pick up lunch for us all, finally arriving at the new house while the unloading of the trucks was already well underway:)
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Epiphany!
If it is true that one single day can have a profound effect on a person's life, then let me mark this one as a kick up the backside.
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