Life with Zephyr

What it's like at 94

2011-08-13T13:17:00.000-07:00

Conversation this afternoon with my mother, who turned 94 on Thursday:

Mum: "Your father was a very easy man to feed. He'd eat pretty much whatever you put in front of him."
Me: "Well that must have been nice, Mum. It sure makes things simpler."
Mum: "My husband now, he was a different matter."

I wonder if there's something I should have known about before now.... :-)

Thoughts on Summer

2011-07-02T13:06:00.000-07:00

Things I love about Summer:

The morning chorus of birdsong.

The smell of new-mown grass.

Walking outside in my bare feet.

Baby "everythings"!

Flowers, wild and domesticated.

Heat, and thunderstorms.

Fireflies.

Long, long days.

Gin and tonics (somehow, G&T's don't work at all in November)

Harvesting the first potatoes.

Things I dislike about Summer:

The morning chorus of birdsong: Please, a little quiet at 4 a.m. I'm trying to sleep!!

Mosquitos, blackflies and deerflies -- in fact, anything that bites or sucks blood.

Humidity....

Not being able to keep bananas longer than two days.

Finding earwigs in the cut flowers I just brought into the house.

Did I already say humidity?

More Walt

2011-05-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

Over a sandwich (not toasted), Walt and I continued our conversation.
"A bad thing that happened this Spring was I had to put my dog down".
"Oh Walt", I said, "that's sad. How old was he?"
"He was 23. He was a shepherd."
"Twenty-three!! That's amazing!" I said. "I've never heard of a dog living to 23!"
"Yup. Twenty-three. And it weren't his back end that went. It was his front end. I knew he had to go cuz he started to whine. And he never whined before so I knew he was in pain."
"The hardest thing was to get him to stay in the hole soes I could shoot him". I had to give him a little treat you know".
He must have seen the look of shock on my face as I absorbed this last bit of information, because he said a little defensively:
"Well, I wasn't going to pay some vet $200 to do it". I dug the hole last fall cuz I knew he wasn't going to be around much longer."

Somehow, the thought of the dog's pre-dug grave is the saddest thing of all.

I also discovered Walt doesn't like lettuce in his sandwiches. Only in salads.

One of these things is not like the other

2011-05-06T10:39:00.000-07:00

Not everybody views life the same way. This was brought home to me just this morning.

After last week's windstorm, we awoke to find a truckload of branches on our lawn, and two or three trees down in our "woodlot" out back. Nothing valuable or pretty -- just some old scrags that we probably should have cut down ourselves, but hadn't. Still, it made a mess.
Ian surveyed the scene with dismay. "God damn" he said. "Another two days wasted cleaning up." (Since he's retired, I'm not sure what exactly he meant by "wasted", but I let it go. ) "Call Walt", I suggested. "He could probably use the work and, why should you do it?" "Perhaps I will" he said.
Walt (name changed to avoid embarrassment, or possible law suit) is an interesting character. His family has lived in the area for a long time. His brother runs a small machine shop where we get the lawn mower serviced in the Spring. Walt drives a beat up old Ford truck and does odd jobs. He has a beard and smokes a pipe, often while he's working. If we lived in West Virginia, I would call Walt a mountain man. I can see him relaxing on his porch in the evenings, dog by his side and perhaps a glass of "shine" in his hand. But we live in eastern Ontario, so I'm not sure he fits any stereotype.
Anyhow, Ian called Walt and he showed up this morning. I brought him a coffee (one and a half sugars and some milk) and asked him how things were going.
"Not too bad" he replied. "I fell out of a tree last fall and busted up my collarbones and my back, but other than that I'm OK".
"Good grief" I said, "Should you be doing this?"
"Oh it's OK" he said. "I need the money".
To which there was no answer.
Later on, I brought out some chocolate zucchini bread. Walt was reasonably pleased with the zucchini bread: "Especially since I didn't eat no breakfast. I never eat breakfast".
"Why not Walt" I asked.
"Well" he said, "the night before my first day in high school, there was a big thunderstorm. The next morning, I was in a hurry to get across the highway, but when I put my bread in the toaster, it wouldn't toast. So I said (pardon my language): 'Fuck this. I'm never eating toast again. I'm never eating breakfast again'. And I haven't. And I'm 55. The only toast I'll eat is in a grilled cheese or French toast. If you were to make me a sandwich with toasted bread I wouldn't eat it."
You just never know what makes people the way they are, do you?

Back to the Old

2010-11-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

Although I love "The Website of Questionnary", I like "Life with Zephyr" better. I'm not mystical enough to write entries that would fit a blog of that name.

The other day, a friend sent me something she'd seen on Kijiji, posted by someone selling their patio furniture: shay's lounge.

Also an excellent title for a blog. Or an Irish bar.

I am the Angel of Death

2010-10-18T10:05:00.000-07:00

The aged mother of a friend, when told by her daughter that she believed there was a mouse in her house, said: "You don't have A mouse; you have MICE".

First, some facts:

1. One mouse can eat eight pounds of food in a year. That's YOUR food: rice, frosted flakes, Swiss chocolate, Lays potato chips. Or your dog's food -- mice don't discriminate.

2. A female mouse ovulates every other day.

3. One mouse, on average, can deposit 36,000 droppings a year. I'm not going to work out how big a pile that is, based on the average size per dropping of 2 mm, but you can imagine.

4. Baby mice can mate at five weeks of age. Litters vary from four to twelve.

5. The average house mouse lives for one year, eating, pooping, and breeding the whole time.

Yuk!!!!!

However, they are cute:

So cute that people actually have them as pets!

I'm no stranger to mice in my house. In our Calgary home, which was next to a golf couse that was next to the river, the mice got so bad one year that sometimes the mouse traps sounded like castenets. I finally had to call in the exterminators, who wandered round, inside and out, and basically told us that we couldn't stop them coming in; we had to declare war. (I thought that by setting killer mouse traps, we were pretty warlike, but obviously it wasn't discourging our rodents, so we had to move on to something more serious.)

It turned out to be an arsenal of small, triangular boxes, which the exterminators filled with poison-laced grain, and placed strategically round the basement, and in the few places on the main level they pronounced 'mousey'.

It took a few weeks, but the problem was solved. I didn't want to think about the poor little corpses lying around -- maybe in our walls. I actually saw a tiny desiccated body in one of our window wells.

It was after this slaughter that Ian, my soft-hearted husband, bought the "live trap", also known as "the mouse B&B".

It seemed to work pretty well at first. Ian would gently carry the trap and it's occupant outside, open the lid, and out the mouse would scamper, warm and well fed, and usually only a few feet from the house. I pointed out to Ian that the same mouse might just turn right around and come back in again for some more of that great cheese, but he ignored me.

Then we moved to Ontario. And when the mouse trap was removed from whatever 'house and garden' box it had been packed in, it contained two dead, somewhat mummified mice.

"Oh God!", I said "The poor little things died of thirst". Ian looked very sad but said nothing. Bad things happen when you get too busy to check the live trap.

The people we bought our Ontario house from had a cat (see http://lifewithzephyr.blogspot.com/2009/08/) and for the first year, we didn't see any signs of mice. But last autumn, realizing that the coast was clear, they began to make their first, tentative forays into the house.

Out came the live trap -- this time with a small water dish included. I rolled my eyes. But again, it seemed to work pretty reliably, and as the winter wore on, fewer and fewer 'guests' took advantage of the hospitality.

Fast forward to August 2010. I see signs of the little buggers on our fireplace hearth. What would they be doing there? There's no food. Perhaps they're bringing their own. Perhaps they're sitting around the pilot light, roasting tiny marshmallows and telling stories. It's risky. It would be instant immolation if I turned on the gas fire.

The B&B is coming up mysteriously empty some mornings: no mouse, but no food either. Hmmmm. "Perhaps a large bug is eating the cheese" Ian offered hopefully.

A couple of weeks later, I was sitting in the TV room, calmly watching 'House' or some such thing, when I glimpsed movement out of the corner of my eye. I waited, 'House' forgotten. A small mouse danced happily along the wall between the door to the deck and the TV. I watched as it climbed into Zephyr's toy basket (Zephyr was snoring comfortably on the sofa while this was going on).

Feeling a bit like the giant in Jack the Giant Killer, I picked up the toy basket and methodically removed the toys, one by one, until there were only a couple of toys and very frightened mouse in the bottom. I opened the back door and dumped the contents, catching sight of a tiny black shape streaking across the deck and onto the patio. "And don't come back!" I muttered futilely.

I settled back to continue my TV watching, and a second mouse made a dash for the relative safety of the tangle of cords behind the TV. God Damn!!! Luckily, the second mouse also climbed into the toy basket (following the trail of his mate I suppose), so I was able to repeat my 'giant' routine.

The next night, it happened again.

So that's when I became the "Angel of Death".

Off to Home Hardware. Home with something that the fellow standing by an impressive array of rodent-killing paraphernalia swore to me was "really good stuff". Hardening my heart, I loaded the trap. Next morning, I walked my captive down to the woods, far from the house, noting that it had eaten some of the deadly feast, and trying not to stare back into its innocent, questioning, rodenty eyes.

It got easier. Now I let them go, wishing them well for whatever life they have left.

Since I started my quest for a mouse-free house, I've caught at least 10 of them. I've also placed hunks of the poison in various dog-inaccessible places and been astounded to see it disappear.

I think they're carting if off in small wheelbarrows.

The new name

2010-10-07T14:36:00.001-07:00

I wish I could say I made it up, but I didn't. I had I promised a colleague I'd do an evaluation of her for a course she's taking. She sent me the instructions for finding the site, which I followed, but when I got there, the button I was supposed to click to get into the evaluation wasn't there. So I enquired, using an email link the organization had thoughtfully provided. What I received was the following, along with a new version of the same instructions, in a larger font, and with smaller, numbered, more delineated steps, just in case I was a moron who couldn't follow the original instructions:

PLEASE NOTE THA WEBSITE OF QUESTIONNARY ONLINE IS OUT OF SERVICE UNTIL 3H PM, THURSDAY 7 OCTOBER

I was delighted! It was the nicest thing that had happened to me since I'd gotten up in the morning. (Up till then, it had been a day of cancellations, rescheduling appointments, and missed messages.)

My friend, who writes a wonderful blog you can find here: http://itsjustapie.blogspot.com
suggested it would make a wonderful name for a blog -- and she's right. Maybe she's already set one up!
I'd just like for more people to be able to enjoy it as we did.

The penguin and the oil slick

2010-05-03T07:30:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the hairdresser's the other day:
Young hairdresser speaking to my hairdresser, who's been away: "Did you hear about the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico?"
My hairdresser: "No, what happened?"
Young hairdresser: "Well, it's the biggest spill ever, and it's like, coming onshore, and they can't, they can't stop it for some reason. I forget why they can't stop it."
Hairdresser's assistant (even younger than young hairdresser): "Oh the poor penguins!".
Silence.
Hairdresser's assistant: "Wait. Do they have penguins there?"

I bet you he'll get off

2010-04-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

From the OPP Media Release web site:

Date: April 26, 2010

MARIHUANA SEIZED DURING DRUG SEARCH WARRANT AT QUINTE WEST RESIDENCE
Quinte West OPP Street Crime Unit AND members of Project "Longarm" with the assistance of the OPP K-9 unit conducted a CDSA search warrant at a Quinte West residence in Sidney Ward north of Frankford today.
During the search a quantity of, [sic] processed marihuana, growing marihuana, cannibis resin, cash, and other offence related property were seized.
A 33 year old Quinte West man was charged with Possession for the Purpose of Trafficking Marihuana and Production of Marihuana contrary to the CDSA.

I'd say they could have nailed him for the cannibis resin, but he'll probably walk for for possession of 'marihuana'. I'm pretty sure it's not illegal....

Ephemeral

2010-04-22T06:48:00.000-07:00

Lasting for only a short time; transitory.

At this time of year, before the leaves are out, the forest floor becomes filled with ephemerals -- those short-lived but beautiful flowers that spring out of the just-thawed soil, turn their faces to the sun, and disappear only a few, short days later. They have a special place in the parade of growth; they're first to come and first to go, reminding us that even though we have all of summer to look forward to, nothing is permanent, and all must eventually die.

Some people are like that: they are with us only briefly,
but we feel lucky to have witnessed their brightness
and joy in living.

We take pleasure in knowing them, and are cheered by their enthusiam.

And when they go, too soon, we mourn their passing.

I miss you Linda.

I love our neighbours to the south!

2010-04-05T09:53:00.000-07:00

Three weeks ago, Ian and I headed south on a reconnaisance mission. We were looking for dog-friendly places to rent so that next year we can join the thousands of other snowbirds and escape the winter -- or at least part of it. And obviously if we're going to be absent for extended periods of time we need to find a place that will welcome Zephyr.

First we went to South Carolina. We saw live oaks:

And big old houses. This one's for sale:
We saw drowned coastlines: And regular, undrowned beaches: In our room at the B&B were a selection of magazines. This one caught my eye:

Can you imagine this being published in Canada? Harrowsmith and Hand Guns? Canadian Living with Long Guns? Imagine the shock! Imagine the outrage!

You've got to admit: it's a great title for a magazine.

Everywhere we went, people were friendly, outgoing, and helpful. Their economy is the pits but they are still thoughtfully optimistic. One woman at a gas station told me to have a 'blessed' day. I said to Ian when I returned to the car: "That's got to be better than a regular old 'good' day.

We were told that alligators can be a problem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBJ-lo9AnF8

And while we were there, a man, jogging on a beach, was killed by a small airplane making a crash landing. Apparently the pilot couldn't see the man because there was oil spaying onto the plane's windshield, and the jogger didn't hear the plane because he was listening to his iPod. Is this a cautionary tale about the dangers of flying small airplanes, of jogging, or of listening to your iPod?

You just never know what's coming down the road.

After a few days, we moved on to Florida. We stayed with friends who have a place north of Tampa. We relaxed, picked grapefruit, and put in some beach time:

But this part of the world is crowded, and the only dogs we saw tended to be the type that fit into purses, so we headed northwest to the panhandle and a place called Cape San Blas.

Cape San Blas is essentially a 17 mile long sand spit with a state park at one end and vacation homes along the rest of it. Port St Joe lies 20 minutes northwest and Appalachacola 30 minutes east. Everything seems to be either for sale or for rent (in some cases, whichever comes first). It's quiet, especially in March. And it's dog friendly.

Horse friendly too.We saw brown pelicans and dolphins. We spend hours collecting shells and watching the birds. We sat through a spectacular thunderstorm while sipping wine on our deck.
We and Zephyr will be going back there for a month next year.

And the only alligator we saw was this one:

Just what does he see when he looks at me? (Or, men are strange)

2010-01-31T08:52:00.000-08:00

On Friday I went to get my hair done. It's been three months since I had highlights and things were beginning to look tired. I'd gotten into the habit of routinely pinning my hair up with a clip, and because it's my hair (fine, but reasonably thick and very slippery) it was always falling out and lying in straggles about my neck. I'm thinking lank, as a word to describe it.

So I went for a shorter style -- nothing too dramatic -- but at least four inches shorter. A different look for sure.

I arrive home and enter the kitchen. Ian turns from his computer, looks at me, and says:

"It looks darker".

Me: "You always say that. I'm not blonde you know."

Ian: "I know you aren't. [He doesn't really. He thinks his daughter is naturally blonde, too.] It just looks darker that's all."

Me: "It will lighten up after a few washes."

The rest of the evening was uneventful.

The next morning we went out for breakfast as we usually do on Saturday (and often on Sunday, and sometimes on Friday too.) We went to our usual spot, and Jeni, the proprieter, took one look at me and said: "You've got your hair cut. I like it!"

Ian looks quizzically at me: "Is it shorter? Oh. I guess it is."

Men.

At least with Zephyr you know she won't notice. You could come home bald and to her you'd be just the same.

January's reading list

2010-01-25T10:39:00.000-08:00

OK. It's January. It's grey outside. Winter's got a long way to go.

Here's what I've read to make myself feel better:

The Omnivore's Dilemma, by Michael Pollan. A fascinating exploration into what we eat and why we eat the way we do. Now I feel guilty about everything I put in my mouth, especially anything that had a face and came from a feedlot....

My Stroke of Insight, by Jill Bolte Taylor. A fascinating read about what it's like to have a massive stroke at the age of 37, and the eight years of recovery following. I'm walking around feeling as if my head is made of eggshells and might explode at any minute.

Still Alice, by Lisa Genova. A fascinating novel about a Harvard professor who comes down with early onset Alzheimers. I'm worrying about everything I'm forgetting.

And last but not least, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. The granddaddy of depressive literature, but so beautifully written I couldn't put it down.

It's a wonder I can get up in the morning...

Actually, all of these books are a great read. I'm not finished Michael Pollan's book yet, but would recommend it, and all of the above.

Now what do you suggest I read next?

Magic Gate: an update

2010-01-14T09:03:00.000-08:00

OK. Perhaps it's me. One string of solar lights is out, kaput, not functioning.

I went down a few days ago to brush snow off the collector. Perhaps I was too aggresssive with the broom?

I checked the "on/off" switch and it was in the "on" position. Just in case I wiggled it back and forth, being careful to check once more that the last wiggle had left it "on".

I'm sad.

In which I swear off Hawkins Cheezies™

2010-01-12T09:11:00.000-08:00

It was a Cheezie Christmas. I, wanting to buy local (I'm such an environmentalist!), socked away a couple of bags of my favourite Hawkins™ to have on hand when my children came to visit. My daughter-in-law loves them, but the fact that I usually end up eating the lion's share I conveniently ignored. My sister sent a huge package, containing ten or more smaller bags: she called it "packing material". And they did work just as well as styrofoam beans.

I ate my first Hawkins™ cheezie when I was five, and I've loved them ever since. There was a moratorium on Hawkins™ for quite a number of years after my middle son nearly choked to death on one -- thank goodness for the Heimlich Maneuver! But after he grew up and moved away they would occasionally make their way into the house.

And when I moved here to Ontario and realized they were made just down the road, it seemed to me to be my duty to buy them, if only to support a local business. I now wear a ring of blubber around my waist that I think I can attribute almost entirely to cheezies. Such altruism!

So after Christmas I made all the usual noises about cutting out the junk food and losing 10 pounds etc. etc. But yesterday as I cruised the grocery store I found myself drawn to the chip and cheezie aisle. "Stick to the outside aisles! Stick to the outside aisles!" I heard a small voice cry out to me, but I ignored it and snatched up two bags of Hawkins™.

So half the bag disappeared yesterday evening....and the other half....this morning.

And then I looked at the "nutritional information" on the back of the empty bag. Hmmmm. 270 calories per 50 g. A 210 g bag.....Hmmmmm. That's 1134 calories. Oh. My. God.

I think it's a great testament to my metabolism that I don't weigh 300 pounds!

So that's it. The second bag was opened and the contents ceremoniously dumped into the garbage.

And I found out something interesting this morning. Hawkins Cheezies™ make great firestarters.

Check this out:

http://www.scq.ubc.ca/to-eat-cheezies-or-not-to-a-cheezie-combustion-paper/

If anyone wants to join "Cheezies Anonymous" I'm starting an online chapter.

Christmas here and gone

2010-01-05T13:07:00.000-08:00

But the fat remains.

Why can't I get it through my head that my children and their significant others don't eat nearly as much food as I think they will, but I, like some giant, Eastern European factory ship, will scoop up all that's left because: a) I don't want it to go to waste, b) it's really good, and c) once I start it's very difficult to stop?

I guess I'm a Christmas cake, ginger cookie, shortbread, chocolate, cheezie addict. Not to mention nachos, designer crackers, special breads, and cheeses.

When you put all those things together on three lines they look disgusting, but place them out decoratively on nice serving dishes and I'm a gonner.

Oh well.

Back to the lo-carb, portion control drawing board...

I'm an idiot!

2010-01-05T12:17:00.000-08:00

So the bus station lights lasted less than a week. They became dimmer and dimmer, and finally one night they refused to come on at all. I hauled the ladder down to the gate, and took them down -- no easy task, as the ladder wobbled on the uneven ground and I, ever the optimist, had asked Ian to string them rather thoroughly through the holes in the gate and roundabout the branches of the vine.

The company I bought them from returned my money, and all I was out was the return postage.

Almost the next day, my friend in Calgary informed me that Canadian Tire had stacks of solar lights for sale. I was excited. That weekend I bought two sets and, as my son and his wife were visiting, I took advantage of his good nature (Ian having decided by this time that he was not going to have any part of the solar light experiment) and asked him to help me set them up. He obliged happily and scrambled like a monkey onto the top of the gate in order to set the little solar panels at the best possible angle. (How to feel your age: watch your 30 year old son do something athetic that you couldn't attempt to do, even if your life depended on it!)

All was well for a couple of weeks. Then one set began to look much dimmer than the other. I checked the connections on both sets (I think perhaps breaking one -- I couldn't be sure: I didn't have my glasses on...). Two nights later the dim set refused to come on.

I was so disappointed.

But I was also determined.

Ah those solar lights. I went though four sets last year. I became embarrassed to walk into Canadian Tire. I was sure the ladies behind the counter were going to call in some officious manager, who would probably be not much older than my youngest son. He would examine my solar-light-returning record, and ask difficult questions, like: "How experienced are you in this technology?" or "Just where have you been hanging these lights?"

As it turned out, the last two sets of lights pooped out in January, and by the time I got them off the yew trees by the back deck (I'd given up on the Magic Gate now -- too difficult to string lights with frozen fingers, while teetering on a ladder in the snow, and I had no faith in their longevity) all the Christmas stock had been taken down and put away for the season. But the lady behind the Returns counter was the soul of helpfulness: "Just hang on to them till next November dear", she said. "They've got a year's guarantee!"

So I did.

Ian groaned when I returned, triumphant, from Canadian Tire this autumn with two brand new sets of lights. I put them up myself, having left the supports for the panels attached to the gate.

And strangely enough, they've worked without a hitch. Some nights they've been beautifully bright, and some nights they've been much dimmer. And on a couple of nights, one set hasn't come on at all. Because the panel was covered in snow....

One thing I've learned.

Solar lights need sunlight to work (Duh!). On cloudy days, they don't get a lot, and they use up whatever they've stored in their batteries quickly. After sunny days, they blaze away for a few hours.

I don't know if last year's lights were really broken, or if my antediluvian brain has taken a whole year to figure out how they work.

But the Magic Gate has its lights, for now at least.

I'm going to put off installing the solar panels on the roof for a few years....

The Magic Gate

2009-12-03T13:53:00.000-08:00

Our property comprises two parts: a groomed, lawned, and landscaped part, where the house sits, and a wild, woodsey, boggy (and mosquitoey) part, where the trees are tall and regularly lose branches to the wind. Some have even fallen over, and short of getting some large machinery in to haul them out, they will stay there, providing homes to countless small creatures and making new soil for the forest floor as they decompose. It's weedy, messy, and filled with various wild flowers all summer long.

Separating these two worlds is a gate, which I like to call "The Magic Gate". It was once white, but has faded now, and is covered with a gnarled old rhododendron vine, making painting impossible. It's old, but it's solid, and I expect it to be around a long time.

I don't know why I think of it as magic. Perhaps doorways are like that. You never really know what's going to be on the other side of them -- even if you think you can clearly see it. You have to walk through to discover what's there.

So far all I've found beyond the Magic Gate is the compost heap, tucked against the exposed roots of a huge, fallen beech tree, but I'm pretty sure there are other things -- I just can't see them.

Last fall I decided the perfect way to make the Magic Gate even more magic would be to thread some solar lights through the rhododendron branches. What could be more wonderful than, as darkness fell, the gate lit up by lights that came on all by themselves?

I went online and soon found what I thought I was looking for. A little on the pricey side, but -- what the heck -- it would be magical!

When they arrived I was disappointed. They were tiny, and the colour, when I finally saw them lit up, reminded me of a bus station washroom. Oh well. Not to be deterred, I, with a great deal of help from Ian, strung them into the branches and on the gate, and for a few nights it was magical, even if the colour wasn't.

Later: Part two, or "I sure hope solar panals work better than these things or Al Gore doesn't stand a chance!"

Beautiful Autumn

2009-11-17T08:52:00.000-08:00

The Old Man of the Forest

Finally

2009-11-11T11:43:00.000-08:00

It seems silly to talk about how fast October went when we're almost halfway through November. Suffice it to say that the week after Ian and I had our little holiday I went to Ottawa for a few days so I could check in with the Mothership, and the week after that I went to Calgary for five days. The primary reason for going was to attend the wedding of the oldest son of a dear friend of mine, who I've known for nearly thirty years.
But there were lots of secondary reasons to go -- like, I hadn't seen my youngest son since we left in July 2008; I wanted to catch up with other friends; it was important to me to go back to the old office and say goodbye to people who will be retiring in the next few years and who I'll probably never see again; and, finally, it was time to see the place again and note my reaction.

And my reaction was....

"Well, isn't this odd. I feel absolutely nothing. Nothing at all."

Just as I used to feel when I returned to Calgary from being away somewhere. Well, actually, nothing was lots better than the bleak despair I felt sometimes.

I did enjoy seeing the moutains again. They have always produced a feeling of almost romantic pleasure -- their sheer size, their cold, rocky indifference, the wildness still there, despite our constant attempts to get to each and every corner by any means we can. The evening I flew in they were bathed in an eerie, yellowish glow, the effect I'm afraid of a nasty inversion over the city. It's really a shame about the air. Too many cars I guess.

And it was wonderful to see everyone else as well. Especially the friend who was kind enough to put me up (put up with me?). It was as if I never left. We even got in a golf game!

But it was even more wonderful to land at Pearson the following Monday and realize that it felt like home, and with every passing mile east on the 401 the feeling was stronger.

When I got to Brighton on Monday evening it was to face guests who had arrived the day before. More about them another time.

They left on Wednesday, and by Saturday, the month was done.

Just. Like. That.

What happened to October?

2009-11-04T12:54:00.001-08:00

I turned around a couple of times and it was gone. A short vacation to the Niagara region and the Lake Erie shore with Ian. (Check out the palm trees -- who would have thought it? Palm trees on Lake Erie. I was excited! Of course when I asked the waitress how long they'd been there and she said "Since May", I returned to reality. They were to be shipped back to their winter home at the nursery that very week. )

Still, they added an element of romance to the shore.

We spent a day visiting wineries in the Niagara region, and doing the tourist thing in Niagara Falls and pretty little Niagara on the Lake. I didn't realize there was so much history there. We will go back.

It rained a lot over the four days we were away, but we saw sunshine as well and lots of scenery. It's quite different in the Lake Erie part of Ontario. Old tobacco farms are giving way to fields of peppers and squash -- the tobacco sheds lie abandonned. And dotting the land for many miles are giant windmills, part of the Lake Erie Wind Farm system.

We spent our third and final night in Stratford. We arrived around six p.m. in a torrential downpour, so saved our sightseeing till the next morning. Another lovely little town. You could almost believe you were in England!

We'll come back to this town too.

Tomorrow: the next October adventure.

The machines are taking over

2009-10-07T16:54:00.000-07:00

I own an iPod Touch. I won it last year in a wine tasting contest. I managed to guess the identities of five French reds correctly -- I was the only person in a group of about 25 who did it (I knew all that hands-on research would pay off sooner or later!).

Ian and I are not hugely technologically savvy. We are trying to stay current but it's really hard. We routinely find that the Bell remote defeats us. Still, we muddle through. We haven't yet not watched a video we wanted to watch, but sometimes it's accompanied by a lot of cursing and swearing.

But tonight, I feel convinced that we are not really in control. A few months ago, Ian's son gave us his MP3 player because he had upgraded to a newer iPod, and this machine didn't charge his latest toy. I was really excited, because my "wine-won" iPod was still very new to me; we didn't have an MP3 player, and it seemed like such a functional way to store and play your music. And it is.

Except that this evening the machine started all by itself.

We were finishing the supper preparations and Ian was talking to his daughter on the telephone to find out her Thanksgiving plans, when I noticed music playing in the background. I thought Ian must have turned on the "big machine" (literally) in the living room.

Long story short: No big machine. No one turned anything on. The little player started all by itself. It's still playing -- I'm struck by the nice variety of music I've downloaded onto it.

Why did it start? Is it because it sits close to the iMac and just felt like asserting itself?

Will it do this in the middle of the night?

I'm sure its intentions are not malelovent -- it seems the most pleasant of small machines.

But still.

Consumer and consumed, reprise

2009-09-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

Snake vs. toad: Round II

A few days ago Ian and I were out walking Zeph in the jungle (hey, we've spend the last umpteen years in southern Alberta -- it looks like the jungle here!) when I happened to spot, at the side of the path, the "snake-eating-toad" event repeating itself.

"Ack!!" I said (it was all I could muster at the time).

Ian, however, sprang into action, pinning the snake gently on the back of its neck with his walking stick (do snakes have necks?). It promptly disgorged the toad, who was not as far gone as the first one we saw, and slithered indignantly, or maybe resignedly -- how do I know -- into the underbrush. Ian picked up the toad and deposited it about 50 yards along the path under a bush beside a stream. We looked carefully at the toad but it gave no sign that it was grateful, or even very much aware of our existance.

All we could do was leave it to its own devices, which looked pretty limited, even for a toad.

That evening, we found out why the toad was less than lively. From Wikepedia:

"Garters were long thought to be nonvenomous, but recent discoveries have revealed that they do in fact produce a mild neurotoxic venom...The mild poison is spread into wounds through a chewing action."

So the poor toad probably couldn't move even if all his toady neurons were screaming: "Red alert! Red alert! Being picked up by giant monster and moved from my territory!!!!"

Well hey toad. It's better than being eaten alive.

I checked the next day to see whether the toad was still sitting under the bush beside the stream. It wasn't. Maybe the snake got it after all.

I prefer to think it will go on to become the largest, oldest toad in the jungle. The King of Toads.

First day of Autumn

2009-09-22T12:41:00.000-07:00

Ohmygosh! There's only 94 minutes of summer left!! Surely there's something summery I should be doing with that time! Instead I've been trying to get my head around what is meant by a Communications Plan. Should be pretty straightforward , right?

But ..... I work for the government. How's this for convoluted? Under "Sequencing" (I'm not even sure I know what that means):

Indicate any need to pre-position the issue with target audiences or to seek third-party views to build support before and/or after any announcement.

It goes on and on....

And I find my attention wandering alarmingly. If I were out with Zephyr and my attention wandered like that it would probably take me over a cliff.

In all fairness, this stuff is bettter written today than it used to be. Look at this, taken directly from our 40-year-old author guide:

The consistent use of the active voice wherever possible makes for better and clearer writing.

Um, wouldn't it be better to use the active voice there?

Ah, easy to criticize. And meanwhile the last minutes of summer are ticking away.

The consumer and the consumed

2009-09-07T15:57:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, Ian and I pulled into our driveway, opened the garage door, and were faced with a snake swallowing a toad in our parking place. Why the snake was in the garage I have no idea. Our first instinct was to try to save the toad, but when we looked around, there was a fair bit of blood on the garage floor, and the toad was at this point at least halfway consumed, so we came to the unwelcome conclusion that we couldn't help.

And anyway, what did help mean? The snake was just being a snake and having a meal. The toad was just unlucky.

It was, however, a nasty glimpse into what happens all the time in "Nature", that place the starry eyed environmentalists like to idealize and hold us all responsible for. It wasn't cuddly, or cute, or controllable. It was horrible. But then again, maybe it wasn't as horrible for the toad as I imagine. I hope not.

The thing that keeps coming back to me is the look in the eyes of the snake and the toad: the toad was being consumed by the snake from the back to the front, and the look in the toad's eyes held no more expression than that of the snake.

That was perhaps the worst thing of all for me.

Country living....

Things I've discovered since moving to Ontario

2009-08-27T12:37:00.000-07:00

1. Having four seasons is pretty civilized. I could still do with a two-month winter -- or no winter at all for that matter (I've always said snow is something you should be able to drive to), but having well-demarcated, predictable changes of season appeals to my sense of order in the universe.

2. Snapping turtles really do snap (don't ask -- what I did was dumb, but I didn't know that until after I did it).

3. The 401 is amazingly busy, but generally speaking isn't as scary as the rest of Canada thinks it is. I've been waaaay more scared on logging roads in B.C. than I have been on the 401 (so far).

4. It's no wonder Ontario picked the trillium as its provincial flower. My only question is: there are so many lovely flowers --- how did they ever choose?

5. Fireflies are MAGIC!

6. Any climate where grapes can be grown for wine is a good climate.

7. Mosquitoes and blackflies aren't the problem: sand flies (noseeums?) are the problem. Actually they're all awful.....

8. Although they like to think they're different, people are the much the same all over Canada: pretty decent.

I know there's more. I'll drop them into my posts as they come to me.

Zephyr Learns to Fish

2009-08-24T12:02:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I wrote. I had a couple of weeks of vacation, and was for ten days in a place where there was no access to the internet. That took some getting used to. I was with family, and not having Google to answer important questions like: "How do you know when corn is ripe?" or "What do sand dollars eat?" was a real eye opener. It made me realize just how dependent we've all become on the great encyclopedia that's usually at our fingertips.

Anyhow, I'm back now, and as promised a few entries ago, this post tells the story of how Zephyr learned to fish.

Zeph loves to swim. She appears to be just as comfortable swimming as she is walking -- maybe more comfortable. She took to the Ontario lakes like, well, like a duck to water. And the bigger the waves the more fun she appears to be having.

After we arrived here, we took her to the lake often . She chased her water toys, or sticks -- whatever was around. Sometimes she simply swam, just for the pleasure of it. And then winter came and with it the ice, and it was too dangerous to go down to the shore.

In the spring Ian discovered a beach not too far from us that we hadn't visited before. It's a beautiful beach, looking right out onto the vast expanse of the lake. For the two months when school is out it transforms itself into a provincial park, with all the attendant rules, but for the other ten months it's wild and largely deserted, except for dog walkers and the occasional cyclist.

Tall dunes separate the beach from a protected little lake behind, and a stream joins the two bodies of water. And one day, in this stream, Zephyr discovered......fish!!

Well, the excitement was unbelievable! Squirrels

are one thing, but it's really hard to get close to them.

"HEY, DAD!! These things are right under my feet!!!!! What are they? Are they good to eat?? There goes one!! There goes another one!! How do I get them? Howhowhowhow??"

Zeph is a pointer, and after the intital frenzy, she reverted to the methods for which the breed is known. She will sometimes stand for 15 minutes watching her prey, every muscle tensed and ready, before something causes her to break point, and she pounces.

It's hard not to laugh -- she's having such a good time. Check out the tail in the video:

Sadly, so far the "point and pounce" technique hasn't resulted in any catches for Zeph, but she remains undeterred!

Possession Day

2009-08-03T09:38:00.001-07:00

So the big day arrived and we drove to the house to pick up our key and take possession. The previous owners were hard at work: he mowing the lawn (which was really kind of him), and she overseeing the movers, doing some last minute cleaning and packing, and trying to stay sane. She was pretty close to tears when we arrived. It was a hot and humid day, and the doors were open to let the movers in and out. The house was damp and smelled a bit; flies buzzed throughout the rooms. She stood at the kitchen sink, sweaty and obviously exhausted, and smiled at us with clenched teeth. "Do you want these?" she asked, pointing under the sink to what looked like twenty different cleaners in various stages of emptiness. "Sure" I said quickly. "I'm sure I can find a use for them".

She pointed to one of them and said: "This one is for the kitchen sink. We installed that sink on Christmas Eve last year and I wish I'd never seen the thing, but I just couldn't pay $1400 for a stainless steel one! It's just impossible to clean. Look at it!!"

I peered uncertainly at the sink, and wondered if installing new plumbing was a yuletide tradition of theirs.

"I always wash the dishes on this side of the sink", she said, "and look at it! It's permanently stained. I use this cleaner on it but it always looks dirty!"

I assured her that it didn't really matter to me if the sink looked dirty at this point.

"God!" she said. "look at this place! It's a mess! It's damp and full of flies and it's rained every. fricking. day. this summer!!!"

I suggested she stop for a cup of tea, but she just wanted it to be over. We eventually found out that the icing on the cake of this awful day was that her cat, terrified of the movers, had crawled up under the ceiling tiles in the basement and wouldn't come out. Period.

"I can't leave her!!" she said. "This has happened twice before to me with different cats, and I had to leave before I found them and I'll never forgive myself if it happens again."

We all trooped down to the basement and tried unsuccessfully to lure the cat from its hiding place. Finally, time ran out. The movers had left, and the previous owners simply had to go too.

We told her not to worry, we'd find her cat, and we'd take care of her until they could manage to come and pick her up. I had my doubts whether the cat would ever come out with Zephyr there. I didn't relish the thought of a dead cat decomposing slowly somewhere over our heads in the basement.

We waved them down the driveway and heaved a sigh of relief. We unpacked our cooking gear, which consisted of a toaster and a coffee maker, and considered the rest of our day. First on my list was to do my own cleaning: bathrooms, floors, kitchen. Then we unpacked what clothes and toiletries we had brought with us, and prepared our bedroom: two thermarest matresses, two pillows, two sleeping bags (and of course Zeph's bed).

By now it was time for supper and we had still heard nothing from the cat. We ate at a restaurant in town and drove home in a kind of exhausted daze. We opened a celebratory bottle of wine and toasted our new life. Then we went to bed.

I awoke a few hours later to an amazing light show outside. I could faintly hear the thunder through the closed windows (the house was wonderfully cool now -- three cheers for heat pumps!), but the lightening was almost continuous, so it must have been quite the storm. I lay there, feeling content.

Suddenly, there was an enormous flash, and in the light I saw a cat racing across our bedroom and into the walk-in closet. At first I thought I might be dreaming, but then I remembered. Zephyr lay beside me, comatose and unaware. "Ian" I hissed, "the cat's in the closet!".

"OK" he said. He crawled out of bed (literally: the matresses are about 2 inches thick), made his way to the closet, and shut the door. "There", he said, "it'll do till morning".

The rest of the night was uneventful. There was nothing in the closet but the cat at this point, so it was a spacious arrangement for her. In the morning we put down a little food that her owner had left, and some water. I spoke soothing words into the closet. I couldn't exactly see the cat, but I assumed she was somewhere in there. Zeph followed me and exhibited not a shred of interest.

It was an odd but memorable welcome into our new home. We eventually got hold of our "hanger on" -- we had to: there was no kitty litter in the closet -- and plopped her into the cat carrier that had been left for her. We then called her frantically relieved owner, who drove three hours from her new home to pick her up and then three hours back again.

But I would have done the same thing for Zephyr......

Happy Anniversary!

2009-07-28T13:59:00.000-07:00

One year ago today, we arrived in this part of the world to take up our new life. Because we wouldn't have possession of our home for two days, we took up temporary residence at a nearby Holiday Inn. Zephyr was getting to be an old pro at motel living by that time -- her biggest source of angst every night was which queen size bed she would sleep on.

That being said, she hadn't been entirely happy since seeing the only home she could remember dismantled before her eyes. We hired a local moving company in Calgary, owned by a man named "Archie". Archie came well recommended, but I couldn't help having second thoughts when I first saw him. He looked like a pirate -- bent, grizzled, and probably blind in one eye ( I didn't inquire). He sounded a bit like a pirate too. I mean, he didn't say: "Ar harh matey!" or anything like that, but he spoke in a bit of a garble, and I often found myself nodding and smiling at him like some demented doll, having had no idea what it was he had just said, and not quite sure which eye was looking at me.....

For all my misgivings, Archie lived up to his reputation, and our belongings arrived safely and on time at the other end.

Zephyr proved to be an admirable travelling companion. She either slept, or quietly looked out the window. She and I drove in the SUV: I in the the driver's seat and Zeph in the very back, a space she had all to herself. Ian drove the truck. Among his travelling companions were the most valuable of our cases of wine, which we had amassed over the previous three years as members of a wine club. The outside temperature was a cause for concern to us, both for Zeph and the wine. Luckily it wasn't too hot that July.

My son had compiled three discs of music for me, and I listened to them pretty much constantly for the whole trip. Whenever I play them now I'm reminded of the magical feeling I had throughout the journey: I was finally escaping a place that had held me for 30 years. A place that, while great in many ways, had never, ever felt like home to me. It was, truly, like bustin' out of prison (not that I've ever been in prison, but you know, you can imagine....)

Quick aside: This country is amazing. Beautiful. Everyone should drive it once. I've done the bulk of it twice now and I hope I never have to do it again. It's very, very big.

Really, really, really big.....

So we arrived at our final destination tired yet keyed up. The move, which had begun months before with the first emptying of a closet, wasn't over yet.

Tomorrow: First night in the new home, or "Is that a cat in our bedroom?"

About Zephyr

2009-07-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

The subject of the title of this blog deserves at least one post all to herself.

I'm sure most dog owners could write a book about their dog, and I'm probably no exception. Most of us are tiresomely like new parents when it comes to our furry companions -- we exclaim and marvel over every new trick and cute behaviour.

I'll really try not to do that.

Zephyr was born on March 21, 2007, one of eight in the litter. I think she was fourth or fifth, I can't remember. And it doesn't matter, suffice it to say she was a middle puppy. Wire-haired Pointing Griffons are not a common breed: I read on one web site devoted to them that only 100 to 125 puppies are born in North America every year. That's not a lot, when you consider that one of the women dragonboaters I know has two Golden Retrievers, and between them they will have produced nearly 30 puppies in the last two years alone! Griffons originated in France about a hundred years ago, and are classified as "versatile hunting dogs".

Little puppies are cute:

This is Zephyr on May 17, relaxing with her 'Dad' in her new home in Calgary. Ian and I had driven to Edmonton the night before, and picked Zeph up the next morning from the cargo terminal at Edmonton International Airport. The breeder was shipping some puppies to buyers in the United States, and told us it would be easy to put our puppy on a plane to Calgary, but we couldn't bear to think of the little thing all alone in a big plane. (From that moment on we've been held emotional hostages by this dog.)

The picture is instructive, because from the first Zephyr has been a "touchy-feely" kind of dog. She always wants to be in physical contact -- even if it's just a foot touching one of our feet. I've never known a dog quite like her.

OK. Fast forward. She's two and a bit now, a big, lean, long-legged, happy dog. She's bright, eager to please, easily crushed, and has a great sense of humour (her idea of a good game is to grab hold of a bath robe tie and pull -- hard). She learns fast. She needs a lot of exercise, but is quiet in the house. She will bark at strangers, but then go and find a teddy bear to present to them: it doesn't inspire confidence in us in terms of her protecting the house against burglers.

Here's how she looks now:

In another post: How Zephyr moved to Ontario and learned to fish.

Still no time

2009-07-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

OK I told you in the last post: I have no time to do this. However, since I actually enjoy writing, I'm going to make time.

I wonder how you do that? Make time? I know how to make amends, make up, make do, make a face. But the idea of making time is really alluring. To create time. Wow! I could make my fortune (there I go again... making stuff).

I can see it now: 15 minutes of time could go for $100; an hour for $300 (bulk discount there). Am I charging too little?

I could sell different kinds of time: of course happy time would probably be the most popular so I could charge a premium for that. Starving artists might buy (or give me a painting for) some dinner time; writers might pay me for some angst time; cheating spouses for some hidden time.

My small piece of fantasy time is drawing to a close. The dinner time routine starts.

Next time I really will talk about life with Zephyr.

Dear God there's no time!

2009-07-10T12:35:00.000-07:00

I've heard people say that when you retire you have no time, and I've always snickered to myself: "Ha!" I say, "What do they know about no time? They're not working. They've got all day for goodness sake!".

Well, this morning I started my day at 6 a.m. with an hour's paddle in Lake Ontario. Wonderful. Beautiful morning. Swans, loons, lake a saphire blue. A quick breakfast with my fellow paddlers, then home to sort out the painter and make him some coffee ( I arrived exactly one minute before he did). Quickly check my email; put a load in the washing machine; hop in the shower (Good. I don't have to wash my hair -- I'm getting it done later). Then to work. I'm only working three hours today, but I don't even seem to be able to do that. First the painter wants to talk to me about the master bedroom. Are we sure about the colour? (No, I'm not sure at all -- every colour I've put on the walls in this house has been a surprise. Sometimes a very bad one.)

Sit down again. The phone rings. It's my friend calling from Calgary to talk to me about a job she's applying for. Can she use me as a reference? Of course she can! And then on to the house she's buying, the new boyfriend. All good news, and wonderful to talk to her. But.... there's that spreadsheet I started yesterday and wanted to finish today.....

OK. I'm back at it. Oooops! I forgot to fill out my leave form for today. Might as well fill one out for Wednesday morning too.

Now. The spreadsheet. Hmmmm. OK. Why is Zephyr barking? Oh. Ian's home and wants to tell me about his schedule for the day. Can he pick up anything? No. That's fine. Quick kiss. "Have a good time!" Zephyr and Ian disappear.

I need a cup of coffee. Damn! It's almost time for me to leave for my hair appointment. I give up.

It's a beautiful half-hour drive, except I'm behind schedule and I can't seem to rid myself of people in front of me driving 10 km below the speed limit. Ten minutes late. I'm never late. Oh well.

Hair's done and I'm pleased. Off to the bread store. The most fabulous wood-fired-oven bread. A chive and onion scone for lunch -- eaten in the car. A stop at the market for fresh local berries; a stop at the grocery store for pizza fixings and lotto tickets (I live in hope), and then home.

Put everything away. Sort the wash I put on this morning into things that don't have to be ironed and things that do. Everything does except a pair of socks. Note to self: call someone to come and fix the dryer.

It's 3 o'clock. Do I:

1. Call my mother to tell her her birthday card arrived (one day late but she was so uspset that it didn't arrive on my birthday)
2. Iron all those clothes
3. Check my email
4. Walk Zephyr (early, but a great stress reliever)
5. Write in my blog

I chose 1. then 5. As you can see. And now I'm going to go for a walk in the woods with my dog, and add to my already remarkable number of mosquito bites.

I have lots of things to write about. When am I going to find the time??? I must be retired.

Ah, technology....

2009-07-07T04:53:00.000-07:00

So I start a blog and not two days later we lose our internet service. Wednesday night everthing's working fine. Thursday morning -- zip, de nada, nothing.

We called our service provider and they did their best from wherever they were - Moncton perhaps? Or maybe somewhere farther afield. But to no avail. So they told us they'd initiate a work order and then it would be up to their contracted technicians in the area to get to us. Maybe tomorrow; maybe not till Monday or Tuesday.

We're not in Calgary now.

So it was a quiet weekend. For the first 48 hours or so there were reflexive jerks toward one computer or another to look something up or to check email, but we soon settled down and forgot about it. I'm surprised it was that easy.

But I'm happier to be back.

Why "Life with Zephyr"?

2009-06-30T14:16:00.000-07:00

Because "Life in the Country" was taken. So was "Life in the 'just about' Country", and " Life in the 'close to' the Country". Life with Zephyr" popped up immediately as being available. I wonder why? Perhaps people associate the name with those old cars.

And why did we call our dog Zephyr? Well, we had a list of about 20 names, starting with those beginning with 'a' , and we couldn't agree on anything. I wanted to call her "Georgia", but Ian didn't like Georgia. At that point, Ian wasn't even sure he wanted a dog.

The birthdate of the puppies approached and still we didn't have a name.

Fate stepped in and stopped our dithering. The puppies were born on March 21, the first day of Spring, and Zephyr it was.

She was a very cute puppy (I know, they're all cute). She was also a bit odd looking -- all legs. A bit like a jackrabbit.

But my husband took one look at her and he was doomed. Gone were any thoughts about not wanting a dog: he fell in love when he held her the first time and the love has never wavered.

It's just as well. She's a hunting dog and needs a lot of exercise.

Will I ever use this?

2009-06-30T11:59:00.000-07:00

I'm having a totally unproductive day at work. Every time I start something, I get interrupted -- at least that's my excuse. So far I've attempted to accomplish three things and failed. Phone calls, doctor appointments, helping my husband hang a piece of stained glass (it looks really nice!), FINALLY ordering online the cleaning solution we're nearly out of. Gosh.

So I thought to myself: "What can I do to make this day less of a failure?" And I thought: "Start a blog! Surely that would at least give me a feeling of creativity or something!".

Let's back up. I live in the country, and telework. My official office is three hours away; my home office is 13 paces from my bedroom and 17 paces from the coffee maker in the kitchen. The view from my office window is of rolling hills and the horses at the farm just down the road. It's a wonderful setup. The only thing that would make it more wonderful is not working. That will happen eventually.

I'm incredibly lucky: I know it. And I'm not taking advantage. Some days are just plain unproductive and that's just the way it is. It was that way when I worked in-house; it's that way now... and ever shall be, world without end, etc. etc.

But look at me! I've started a blog! Will I ever use it? Maybe. Will anyone ever read it? Probably not. That's not a problem.

Perhaps it will he;p me stretch my writing muscles.