Catching Up & Some Pics (#198)

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

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

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

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

See? There is a God.

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

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



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



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



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



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


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



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


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


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

Crows Among The Standing People (#197)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the boots were fine.

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

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

Once again, I decided to leave him be.

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

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

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

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

Deception (#196)

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

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

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

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

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

Look at this face:



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

Here’s the sad story:

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

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

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

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

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

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

This dog was On The Job.

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

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

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

A Life Less Ordinary (#195)

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I had to work fast.

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

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

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

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

“If you wreck it, I’ll kill you.”

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

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

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

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

Beauty!

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

Holy Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints!

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

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

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

The Life Of A River Rat (#194)

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

No, seriously, it’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

Unless you were a river rat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We became a community - a community of river rats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Determination (#193)

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

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

The result was predictable.

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

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

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

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

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

Did I just see its mouth gape? Impossible.

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

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

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

It was tricky.

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

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

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

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

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

And it flat-out refused to die.

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

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

Only the slightest.

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

Recently Thunk Thoughts (#192)

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

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

Thought #1:

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

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

Thought #2:

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

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

Thought #3:

All dogs are not created equal.

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

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

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