Feb. 20 through 27....

I'll soon be incommunicado for a couple of weeks so I'm preloading my blog with a few things in an effort to stay true to my goal to blog daily (I figure this is buying me a week's worth of entries!)

So, don't read this all at once unless you're a bear for punishment. This is for those of you who don't read newspapers:

This week, Feb. 15 to 21, in the Ottawa region is "choose to be kind" week. While I think most of the Canadians I know regularly do choose to be kind, we can all do with a reminder. Want to do a random act of kindness? Want to make someone smile? Read this press release and the local website for ideas or to send a "kindness card".

Tonight the moon will be fully eclipsed by Earth's shadow; it'll be viewable anywhere in Canada. It's safe to watch with the naked eye or via binoculars. Take a few minutes around 10:01pm tonight, the whole process will take about 50 minutes. An added bonus is being able to spot USA193, the out of control spy satellite which everyone jokes Roger Clemens should shoot down with his baseball. In truth, a US warship is tasked with aiming a non-explosive warhead to collide with the satellite at a cost of $40-$60M. USA193 will appear in the southwest sky moving northeast around 6:06pm tonight. Through on your parka and head out doors! Steal a smooch to two while watching the eclipse - how romantic!

Did you know...the Ontario Provincial Police will ticket you $490 + 3 demerit points (fine can go as high as $2000) if you do not slow your car down and move to an adjacent lane when passing stopped emergency vehicles with lights flashing? This law is 3 years old and according to the OPP "just common sense." Just a friendly reminder; consider this my act of kindness for today.

While we're talking transportation, have you heard of e-bikes? These are electrically-assisted pedal bikes, very cheap to run, environmentally friendly and free from insurance, licensing, parking fees and gas! Check out this e-bike site plus what our province has to say. I'm just wondering how well it would get me "up the mountain" (a local euphemism for climbing up the highland road that leads to White Lake)!

Try staying in touch with your inner child. I do: I still like reading some comics in the newspaper.

I believe everything goes better with music. A Finnish study concludes music helps people recover more quickly from strokes. Stuck in hospital? Stuck anywhere? I say slap on those ear-buds, ear-phones, call 'em what you will and get down! Three months later, music-listening stroke victims showed a 60% improvement in verbal memory compared with a 29% improvement in non-listening stroke victims.

You may or may not be on Facebook but the Citizen reports 7.8 million Canadians are...that's a quarter of our entire population - phew! And guess who else is? Yup, Prime Minister Stephen Harper, Liberal leader Stéphane Dion and NDP leader Jack Layton. So far M. Dion has the most "friends".

Monarchist alert! To obtain Canadian citizenship, new Canadians must swear an oath to "...be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada (not a phrase one hears often), Her Heirs and Successors..." A Toronto lawyer Charles Roach has challenged the federal government because he objects to the monarchy's connection to slavery. He himself, a British subject born in Trinidad, emigrated to Canada more than 50 years ago (he's 74). He argues the requirement to swear the above oath above violates the Charter's freedom of conscience provision. Ontario Court of Appeal judges dismissed the government's appeal and the case can now head to the Ontario Superior Court. Ummmm.

Not vegan yet but...

Yesterday’s [non-front page] news reported a California meat packer Hallmark/Westland Meat Packing Company is voluntarily recalling 65 MILLION kilograms of beef.

According to the U.S. Human Society, the company workers were abusive in forcing “downer cattle” (cattle who refuse to stand, it is implied, due to illness) up to pass inspection for the slaughter process by way of becoming the meat people eat. The “get up” techniques included using electric prods, forklift blades for ramming, or water-hosing them to simulate drowning (the animal version of the infamous, torturous water-boarding).

The US Department of Agriculture’s laws stipulate, where cattle are down, packers must obtain veterinarian decision whether the animal is healthy enough to continue into the food chain intended for us humans. It is not up to the packers to decide as the rule exists to help prevent human exposure to certain cow-carried diseases, such as BSE aka “mad cow” which is linked to the human variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. But apparently the packers in this case weren't consulting any vets.

Today's news [even more deeply embedded in the newspaper] says USDA officials downplay the risk to Americans; USDA believes people have only a remote chance of adverse health effects.

Why did everyone involved in the process – the packers, the inspectors, the management -- turn a blind eye? Production? Profit? Greed? Stupidity? Fear? Apathy? Ignorance?

Why did no one care about the consumer? Is it so hard to care about people like themselves: families, friends, neighbours, but not least the nation's children, given a portion of the meat was purchased for federal nutrition programs?

Why did no one care about the law?

What bothers me is how strongly this underscores the extent we in North American blindly trust the processes, trust the people, and the laws in place protecting us from this and other questionable practices in the food industry chain. When 65 million kg of beef are being recalled and people’s worries are assuaged by officials declaring a “minor risk of illness from eating the beef,” you can bet a whole lot of people will be reviewing their meat choices. Yes, it's rare, but if you contract vCJB, for example, it's fatal.

At what point does the lack of trust translate into lack of sales and a diminishing market? Not soon enough, in my opinion.

The instance above describes one event happening in the States. For Canadian information, visit these portions of the Public Health Agency of Canada and Health Canada

Knuckle Coral Reef

Beginning,

forming

polyps.

Sexual-asexual,

fragmentation.

Tentacles,

feeders.

Rainforest of the sea!

For more on coral reefs and why we should care: Coral Reef Adventure

Fist Flower

Fabergé...


flexing...

flowing...

flipping...

floating...

Fleur!

A Chili Sunday

There are days when blogging is a chore, and this day is one of them.

We all had a great time at Sean and Nadia's last night; they were wonderful hosts. Their home is lovely and shows what great taste they have, although they're already looking to buy a new home. All the little grandchildren had a ball! It was pandemonium for a while but all got along very well. The house was full: Nadia, Sean and Sophia, Dawn, Bert, Caleigh, her Sean, Amy, Kohen, Averley, Nadia's sister Christie and her little guy, Carson, Erin and Justin, Rob, Carrie and their kids, Cassandra and Jayna (Alex was playing hockey); Sybil and her grand-daughter, April; Lynn and Paul.

You'll have to take my word for it that all the chili's were very good. I never tasted mine but it went down quite well with everyone. I had Syb's chili which was excellent; loaded with peppers. I didn't try anyone else's as I was feeling a little bilious. Syb and Dawn had made plateloads of cheese muffins - excellent!

Tess got me home in one piece but then the flu hit and you all know what that entails. I'm all over achey but today managed to keep down chicken noodle soup and flat gingerale. I hope I didn't pass this on to anyone.

Cheese Muffins and Chili

It's a beautiful winter day here in White Lake. The lake looks like some kind of moonscape where the wind eddied the snow, then Jack Frost froze it in place. The sun is dazzling on the snow and the fir trees are gently swaying from the north wind. The snow outside our house is higher than the deck but not so worrisome that we have to shovel off the roof! It's minus 9 so still enjoyable, and I really should strap on my skiis and take the dog for a slide.

Tonight, I'm entering my chili into the family chili-fest. I'll have the ignominy of submitting a deer-meat chili so I'm not likely to win first prize as deer meat is notoriously wild tasting despite heavy doses of garlic and chili powder. I'm hoping the men of the family will rise to the occasion....you know: we are MEN; we eat WILD MEAT! Otherwise, I'll have to drink too many Coronas then shamefully cart the whole mess of chili back home.

Dawn's cheese muffins will also be on the menu and, yes, you'll realize how little I have to say in my blog today when I stoop to add her recipe here. But really, folks; it is delish and really easy to make! I urge you to try it today!

2 cups flour
4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 cup white sugar (not really essential)
1 well-beaten egg
1/4 cup shortening
1 cup milk
1 cup grated OLD cheese

Sift baking powder, flour and sugar together. Mix in shortening. Beat eggs, add milk. Add wet to dry ingredients including cheese. Combine all then drop into muffin tins. Bake 400 degrees for 8-10 minutes. These are the best!

Winterluding!

Valentine's Day blew in a hearty load of welcome visitors: sister Dawn, niece Amy and Amy's children, Averley and Kohen!

Ave, older sister, takes great care of little brother when she's not teasing him to distraction. She really knows how to make him belly-laugh!

Little brother is learning to speak and is a great communicator. He prattles on incessantly with no one but his mother understanding a word, well, ok, maybe the rest of us understand the odd word. He's created his own language! Strange but pretty much understandable.

Both kids were immediately on the hunt for Dolly-cat who headed for the most inaccessible hidey-hole in the house. When it comes to hiding, she's a pro!

Dawn and her clan (others arriving today) are headed to Winterlude in Ottawa. Ya gotta check it out. Who wouldn't want to say they've skated the longest skating rink in the world and tasted a Beavertail at the same time, not to mention being bowled over by the awesome ice sculpture? It's definitely something to add to YOUR bucket list!

Photo of skaters at Winterlude with Parliament Bldgs in backgroundby sixlegs via Flickr

To My Special Valentines

♥I have relatives and friends who are addicted to nicotine, one of the most potent of addictive substances♥ To those whose lives I care so much about, Nicotine adds nothing to your life but harmful chemicals, and an ever-present worry and fear amongst those who love you.

In our ♥ of ♥♥♥, we daily pray you will find the way to say

“I love myself and those around me enough to control what air I choose to breath.

I will not be captive to a smoldering bundle of tobacco and paper.”

To those who are still in Nicotine’s awful grip, this Valentine♥ is for you♥

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

On this Valentine’s ♥Day, my dear,
I would give you this gift:
Freedom from the fag:
that unceasing nag,
that need to inhale
that smoke doing braille
upon your poor lungs♥
Because
watching you smoke
is like hearing you say
goodbye to us all
--One drag at a time--
But good bye just the same.
Please choose to stay♥

On this Valentine’s Day♥, my dear
I would give you this gift:
A healthy, wholesome you
Sans cigarette♥
Because
Watching you light up
Is like watching you
slowly draw a razor
across your wrist♥


On this Valentine’s Day♥
I would give you this gift:
The h♥art to quit.
To smell and be smelled
fresh and clean, in and out
So your cells can rebound
So your cough disappears♥
So you’ve more time to burn♥
On all the good things Life has to offer.
On this Valentine’s Day

I would give you this gift.

♥

Spencer goes X-country

Having enjoyed skiing with sister in New Liskeard, I resolved to dig out, and dust off my old skis and boots from the back of the garage. There’s enough snow on the park roadways I can ski without having to create a trail for myself.

I ski over to pick up Spencer, wondering how he’ll adjust to the new “me”. Mr. Ever-ready darts out the door and stops to stare suspiciously at the skis lying in his driveway. He notices everything new. “What the Hell are those?” his cocked head implies.

We head down the road, I mean, literally down the road as it slopes towards the lake, and Spencer, intuitively, knows to stay well ahead and out of range of my noisy skis and my poles screeching in the ice. As I ski faster than I can walk, he’s already running and having a whale of a time. I’m already out of breath!

Spencer being bribed. Note the elegant red coat and black boots!

We head over to the summer park where I try to entice him into deeper snow, cutting a trail for him to follow. No way, José. He obviously remembers our last foray into deep snow and how long it took his nether parts to thaw out! He won’t even approach when I dangle a treat! I turn back and we follow the snow mobile trail for a while but ever vigilant as those maniacs come winging along at 100+ mph and we don't want to get caught skiing on their trail.

Off the ski-mobile track, we figure-eight our way around the park and its various streets, down Hardwood, around Lakefront, up Evergreen, along Roadside (no, I’m not making these names up!), down Woodside, along Red Maple Lane, and past Summerside.

We run into Pierre and Flo, just back from Cuba, and looking, well, let’s face it: just a tad shell-shocked at the cold and snow. Flo points out Spencer’s lost a bootie. Darn! Hopefully someone will spot it and pick it up. I retrace my steps but no luck. This might put a damper on our future walks as once impacted, those hard, little snowballs between one’s toes are no fun for Spence.

I drop him off and swallow two of Ron's beers in short order. Boy, I love the look of crossed X-country skis leaning outside my door. What incentive!

The Making of a Pilot

He sits on the uppermost slope of the hill overlooking the boat-houses lining the little bay on the Abitibi River.

The river’s true colour is dead-leaf brown but there are days like today when reflected sky turns it blue as any painted river. Lining the opposite shore, conifers look navy, their needles that dark in the shadows.

His own house is directly behind him. He knows Mother can see him from the kitchen window but he doesn’t mind. She knows the river is a terrible temptation for a boy.

He sits quietly, this boy, bare legs sprouting from wrinkled shorts with toad-bulging pockets. He sits and watches, ignoring grassy pinpricks on the back of his legs. Ants creep over his hands as he leans back, binoculars chest-ready.

He waits. Mother said they’d come soon and he believes her. He listens hard. Usually you hear them before you see them.

He wonders what they honk about, and imagines.
“Hey! You try leading for awhile.”
“Buddy, you’re heading in the wrong direction!”
“This looks like a good spot. Let’s put down here for the night.”
Or his own favourite: “Are we there yet?”
And the standard, “Mom, I’m tired; I’m hungry. I can’t go on anymore.”

All the conversations.
Leaders motivating the flock to follow, follow me!
Dams quibbling with drakes.
Parents cajoling their young.
Rebels breaking off to go it alone.
The old knowing; the young hoping,
Maybe just plain whining in their tremendous effort.

He wonders how they know where they’re going. He tries to imagine instinct. Is it a faint signal or an overwhelming
command? His thoughts circle, does he himself have instinct?
Would he recognize it if he did? Is it like being lost in a Toronto department store but wisely staying put, believing your parents would eventually find you? They did. But how did he know? He wondered, and pondered, and waited.

His ears pick up the faint ululating sound every Canadian knows, a flock is on the wing. It undulates in volume as does the flock itself undulate in the sky faced with a strong head wind. He coaches them: Ssh, ssh! Don’t announce yourself to hunters!
But announce they do: We’re here. We’re here. And here they are.

The binoculars rise to his eyes. He adjusts the viewfinder as best he can to fit and better focus…the binoculars are his Dad’s. He spies on the leader. Watches his neck, his wings, how hard he works. Is it male? How can he tell? Do females lead?

The leader peels off and another tackles the wind. The first leader slips in behind others, not working as hard. The boy begins to appreciate how wind, air, and size affect speed and flight.

He observes the many members in this flock. Looks for differences, similarities. Looks to distinguish and to learn. Looks to understand flight. How it is such slight movement of wings keeps their heavy bodies aloft at all? Why do they change their path and height of flight so erratically? He is mystified and transfixed.

And he yearns, yearns with every fibre of his being to know how to fly. To fly like a Canada goose.



Boy: photo by Bill Liao
Incoming (flock): photo by sandon1090
Incoming (duo): photo by haydensimons
For more photos, visit Flickr

Fall: Feeling Sixty-three

“One Thanksgiving bird,” his wife requested.

With mixed emotions (for he loves both his wife and his warm bed)
He rises before the sun
Stakes out the pond from behind his blind
And waits, fruitlessly.

At eleven, he scopes neighbouring ponds
then drops like a stone
as a honking V of slip-sliding geese disband,
descending the horizon.

Commando-style, all senses alert, he stalks the flock.
Not feeling sixty-three.

He shoots.
The blast deafening already near-deaf ears.
The flock is slow to rise, disoriented by the violent sound.
Where is the threat?

He stands
…almost upon them;
…reads their surprise as they recognize this no-safe haven,
and lift off in calamitous, cacophonous fear.

He surveys his kill:
two birds, not one,
sprawl in graceless death,
their beauty bloodied.

He swings them
by long, warm-feathered necks
into his swag bag.

He swallows and blinks hard
when one’s mate returns,
circling him too close,
bravely foolish in her grief,
her call heart-breakingly unceasing: Shoot me too.

Feeling sixty-three, his voice breaks in the re-telling.

Photos from Flickr and these photographers:

Infowlpursuit

Huskerhunter

Brantnyberg

Fall: Hope on the Wing

In Canada, as lifeless, lustrous leaves litter lake and land,
I savour crisp cold air and survey my limited domain from my simmering hot tub.

I hear their calls.
I scan the sky.
I view the vee:

Geese

in wavering lines
wend their way south,
occasionally north, east or west.
Lost? Disoriented? Seeking known shelter?

Who fails to be touched by their odyssey, their innocence,
their beating hearts and wings,
their iconic shape and pattern,
their white, black and tan,
necks stretched full in hope of safe landing?

How must it be, driven by instinct,
to commence such a journey?
Facing danger, bad winds, bad luck.
Yet rarely alone as many are mated
For life in this fixated flock.
Their calls, though clear,

recede as they advance away from me
and disappear from sight.

Across the lake, gun fire echoes.

These fantastic photos are from born 1945 and Smelter Mountain via Flickr

Summer: The Cat & The Canadas

City cat sits silent watching,
window silled, at Chalet 2.

No whisker twitch, no tail swish,

her back is turned to you.
Her interest’s keen
in what’s unseen

to folks like me ‘n you:

She spots the weak,
the flight, the fleet;
the dew-grass trail of tiny feet.

Her emerald eyes grow wide, grow wide

as in her view, so silent glide:
not one, not two
but two times ten
majestic geese:
Canadian.

What makes she of

all these large birds
descended on her lawn unheard?
They peck, they crop
~ alert, alert!
They cut the grass;
Their rear ends squirt.

She sits absorbed,
transfixed, bewitched.
No whisker twitch. No tail swish.

A motor drones;
the geese take flight.

She’s left alone...
a shadow cat

in dawn’s warm light.

Photos, respectively and thankfully via Flickr by 9stitches11stars, Thunder Thumbs, Rebeckah Fuller, and ertoss

Spring: Laundry Day

She stoops, this spring-fresh day, to disentangle wet, fragrant rags into discernible pieces of clothing. Methodically, she selects each item by size and colour to ensure uniformity on the line as she pegs. She misses hanging his things: heavy stiff jeans; flimsy, oft-times holey shorts; battered socks, his shirts’ ever flappable sleeves. A sweat-stained cap. Sheets, pillowcases, her things, the kids’ things, towels…there are no gaps on the line to reveal his absence, to reveal he is gone. But he is gone.

In the routine thoughtlessness of her task...pick up, shake; peg, peg; pick up; shake, peg, peg, push…she thinks of him.

His hands, rough with a touch ever soliciting involuntary electrically-charged reactions from her body. Still. After all these years. His eyes, his smile, small wrinkles near his ears, the man-smell of his hair as he nuzzled her breasts. She wonders where he is, what he’s doing in that foreign place. Her thoughts skip from reality to imagination. Imagination descends to dark places and worry.

In a gust of wind, she hears them. Turns her face to the sky, eyes searching. Holds her breath as they suddenly appear past the roof-edge, flying in line formation. Their honking loud but not enough to cover their wingsound as they pass directly overhead, the large male leading his smaller female. White cheek patches clearly visible against long, black-stockinged necks.

She holds her breath and watches: this lone twosome on their journey home, flying north to their birthplace. Watches until they become minute silent specks, then nothing at all. The line creaks softly in the spring breeze. Wonders if birds are migrating over his head over there. Birds mated for life, travelling in pairs. Like the two of them. Birds to remind him of home, of her, of the kids. Of Canada. Of this spring ritual.

Pick up, shake; wipe a tear; peg, peg, push.

For the above Kim Denise and other photos, please see www.fotosearch.com and http://www.flickr.com/

Confession: I'm a Trailer Park Denizen

Feb 6:
At the risk of turning people off right here and now, I hereby confess I live in a trailer park. There. I’ve said it the dirty words: trailer park. Of course, my neighbours all quickly correct me: “They’re not trailers; they’re mobile homes!” They’re hardly mobile, being firmly anchored in the ground, so a better name might be immobile, the term I prefer. It makes people stop and think. “Manufactured homes” is another kinder term as is “modular homes”. One friend refers to our place “the ranch.” Regardless the name, it is what it is with the societal implication being: anyone residing in such a place is trailer trash, definitely on the lower economic scale.

How entrenched this is can be illustrated by my sister’s reaction when I told her I’d found my retirement home and it was a trailer. She retorted: “No sister of mine is going to live in a trailer park!” She relented once she visited and saw how perfect it is for my small family: my husband, my cat, and me.

I have my friend, Deb, to thank for finding our new home. Yes, it was advertised in the Penny Saver, and the price alone was the tip-off to as to its true nature although the sellers (who have since become good friends) described it as a 2 bedroom home which, in truth, it is.


Summer:

When we visited I knew immediately it was what we’d been looking for: well-decorated, the requisite number of bedrooms, 2 baths, washer/dryer on same floor [aside: I’ve never understood why laundry rooms are seldom right outside of bedrooms where dirty clothes are shed], all mod cons, lovely floors/carpets, a hearth-warming gas “wood-stove” in a separate rec room, a sun room, large deck, garage and two outbuildings housing garden implements and a riding mower. Bonus!

Another bonus was the yard: large, with flower and rose gardens and mature trees of pine, maple and birch! Our home is situated in an established, well-maintained “park” targeted to retirees. Located on the north shore of White Lake, we have easy access to kayak, swim, and sail…we’re not into fishing, but that too. It’s close to more than 10 golf courses – a bonus in the summer as we’re avid golfers. Everyone takes great pride in their property and it is the neatness, the prettiness of the place that attracts as many people as butterflies. Properties turn over quickly and people often just drive by, wistfully dreaming and waiting for a place to come up for sale.

We’d wanted country but without isolation. We’d wanted to continue to have a social life and there certainly is one here with Friday night Happy Hours and other such gatherings and outings. Neighbours are friendly and helpful. For example, Bob, across the street, when picking up his morning newspaper, also picks up mine and inserts it in my door despite the weather and his age (he is, as they say, getting on but getting on quite nicely). What a great guy! The majority of owners are retirees with a few pre-retirees in the mix who commute via the conveniently widened highway.

It is a tranquil place, close enough to Nature but without being totally wild. Deer abound as do other rural critters. In winter, snowmobiles zoom by on the nearby trail, and as winter deepens, fish huts sprout on the lake. It has an innate beauty; for example, today the boughs of the fir trees are laden with snow and the past two days of constant flurries have softly rounded everything in sight. But I digress.

Feb. 7, continuation:

Yes, it’s a trailer park. Everyone in our park has coped with having to publicly admit where they live despite the stigma of “trailer park” which implies if you live in such a place, you’re typically white, landless, and poor.

True: the residents here are typically white but a nice mix of cultures. True: we could be considered landless as we, similarly to condominium dwellers, do not own the land upon which our mobiles sit but pay a modest “rent” for our lots and routine services (water, snow removal, street maintenance, etc) as well as a modest amount in taxes. Poor? Au contraire, mon frère. I beg to differ. Typically, residents here have sold off more established properties in the city, pocketed a pretty profit, and invested in these suitable, spacious, modern mobiles which are quite modestly priced when compared to, say, local cottage properties. It’s more likely most mobile owners are laughing all the way to the bank. This life-style affords many the luxury of extensive travel, the choice to snow-bird in warmer climes, or to afford their choice of the latest toys (read: motorcycles, pontoon boats, RVs, snowmobiles, latest and biggest TVs, latest cars, etc.). Talk about the best of both worlds! If this is trailer-trash livin’, folks, gimme me more!

Our own local paper recently underlined this trailer park bias as revealed by Citizen's columnist Randall Denley in his Jan. 31 discussion of the need to develop the commercial strip in the Bell's Corners part of town. According to Denley, "This aging commercial strip is a textbook example of what happens when there is no planning or forethought. Just the fact that there is actually a mobile home park there tells you something about the tone of the place [my italics] and how little perceived value this land has." I agree. You won't see a mobile park in the tonier parts of town. But I'd suggest some mobile parks can create their own sense of "tone" and can add to land value as has happened in our park, where pride of ownership is a positive driver in augmenting the value of the "homes" as well as the landowner's land.



Fall:
People often believe mobile homes do not hold their value but that has not been the case in our park. While the level of appreciation may not rise at the same rate as would a standard Canadian house, there is still a slow and constant appreciation. The prices in our park have ranged from approximately $90K for an older, smaller model to the $185K range for the latest, largest model. There is one is currently on the market, but I guarantee it won’t be for long.

With the greying of Canada, more and more seniors are looking for the lifestyle mobile park living affords. At a certain age, people want to downsize, they scale back, unload. And that’s another bonus to mobile living: while most are spacious, owners must still pare down from the contents of a typical standard home. This unloading brings a sense of cleansing and relief as many of us are burdened with years of accumulated stuff. On the plus side, our park’s become famous locally for our annual May garage sale; the bargains to be found here are incredible!

Despite the stigma, you'd be surprised at who has tried park living. For example, the unpretentious film actor Matthew McConaughey is known to move his RV to various mobile parks or to lease mobile homes. Hey, if he's the kind of neighbour one could encounter, count me in! The sister of Norma Jean (aka Marilyn Monro) lived in a trailer. The CEO of Volcom, a surfing clothing line, has a trailer. As for me, I'm a retired public servant who retired at the middle management level, and this public admission is akin to coming out of the real estate closet!



So if you’re nearing retirement or are retired, give this lifestyle some consideration. It's a very smart move and no, it’s not for everyone. But if you love nature, the great outdoors, pleasant surroundings and friendly faces, and the convenience of nearby towns and attractions, you will find you’ve hit the motherlode. Just one more thing: it helps if you're thick-skinned.

More reporting on park living, see: the good, the not too bad, and the ugly, and Randall Denley's Jan. 31 column.

Win? Lose? Draw!

We were gobsmacked when the cop pulled us over last September. I was sure hubby had been speeding but only barely.
"Guess you've just had a birthday, eh?" the cop says to hubby.
"Nope," is his reply, "My birthday's in October."
Sticking his head a little further in our window, he says, "Guess you've just had a birthday, eh?" to me.
"No," I reply -- thinking what the Hell?! "My birthday's in January."
"Well, your license sticker is expired. Expired in July." He takes down the vitals and hands hubby a ticket for $110 but advises us to fight it as the sticker is unrelated to our birthdays. "See you in court," he says tipping his hat politely.

As this happened on our way to Montreal, we decide to immediately head to the Department of Transport to renew our yearly sticker as we don't want to risk the Quebec police giving us a second ticket.

In Canada, sticker renewals are geared to the owner's birthday, but in our case, it's just a haphazard date with no relation to either of our birthdays. Plus the DOT usually advises people by mail to renew a month before the sticker expires but we hadn't received any notice. So, today was our day (read my day since hubby couldn't make it) in court.

I sit in a very modern if small courtroom amongst all types, ages of people there to fight whatever penalty has been dealt them. My seatmates are two young women; one caught tailgating a police car, the other speeding. I note from appearance there are a preponderance of people of various cultures but that is typically Canadian; we're a nation of all-sorts. There is a translator there for some Arabic-speaker but nothing for the lady who speaks French. Ummm. The judge is a lady who, it is quickly apparent, doesn't take any s--t as we like to say in Ontario.

My husband's name is called; I stand and identify myself on his behalf, and state "Guilty with an explanation." Of course we are guilty; we didn't have the updated sticker so no quarrel there. But I explain our is a relatively new car for which we expected a renewal sticker in October. "Didn't you notice the expired sticker?" she asked incredulously.
"No," I replied in all honesty. "We always approach the car from the front."
"How long have you been driving?" she asked.
I admit my face must have revealed my distaste for her question. After all wasn't her question age-ist and what did it have to do with our noticing a sticker? Did she mean I've been driving so long I can no longer see? I came this close to questioning her question but quickly thought the better of it given her no-nonsense demeanor.

I paused for effect (as if calculating, after all I've been driving for 40 years which even I find a long time), then replied "Since I was 16, Your Worship."

No way, was I giving away my age! I think she realized her faux pas at this point and while more or less stating we should have known better (and we should have, I guess), she reduced the charge to $20. To this the Court adds a victim support surcharge of some sort so the whole thing came to $35, saving us about $75 in grocery money. So who won? Who lost? I guess it's a draw but it did teach me being half right is worth fighting for.

Dodging the Bullet

As I'm just back from galavanting in Northern Ontario, there are emails and voicemails to return. One, from Dr. C. (the colon specialist) had to wait until today as there is no point in trying to reach a doctor on the weekend.

So on Saturday I merely took note he had called, and wrote down his number. On Sunday, I started thinking about the call. Most doctors don't call to tell you good news so...was it possible he had bad news? Most doctors get their receptionists to call on their behalf. Most doctors don't bother calling you if there is nothing to worry about. They only call when it's serious. Dr. C. himself had left the message. I don't like this.

Laying in bed, I wondered how I'd handle bad news. I don't feel any different but then why should I? I thought how it might be possible my body has a cancer. I head off to aquafit class at 9:30am, resolving not to let the call I had to make ruin my day; I'd call when I got home. I try not to think about it while enjoying coffee and socializing with my fellow aquacizers, postponing reality for a few hours.

Back home, I make the call. Dr. C. himself picks up the phone. Sounds a little confused at first then recalls (likely referring to a list) why he called. "No worries. Just to let you know the polyps we removed were benign." My relief is palpable, and I thank him, feeling at the same time like I've just dodged a bullet.

Baby Noah

Amazingly, we have had little grief in our extended family but two years ago, my nephew and his wife lost their first baby. I wrote this for them, and now (I hope with their blessing) I offer it to the universe that it may help any others experiencing the loss of a child.

There is a place beneath my heart where you began.

Where we began, your Dad and I,

to love, to hope, to talk to you;

amazed we two had become three. Were soon to be a family.

And you, in turn, and in your way, let us know too, "Yes, I am here!"

Your wee heartbeat beneath my own,

a sign you were becoming, being,

striving to complete our world.

Our babe, an Angel? God decreed.

He changed His plan, despite our need,

left us bereft of you, our precious little one.

There is a place within our hearts where, tho you've gone,

the empty space you left behind wells up with joy, with gratitude,

that we did hold you in our arms

--if only for a little while--

and heart to heart, soft-kissed your brow, blessed you with tears,

named and knew you:

Noah

then, lovingly

we let you go

...safe...

to the arms

of those we love,

of those who wait,

who love you now

at Heaven's Gate.

On the Road (5) - Home!

We braved all Hwy 11 could throw at us (blowing snow, overturned vehicles, & menacing rigs), to arrive in North Bay safe and sound. We immediately hit Zenone's as Baby Sister said they had a 75% sale going. Yes, each of us indulged but only on the best of buys. Then we headed off down dark and dangerous Hwy 17 to meet up with Baby Brother at the Bonfield corner resto (new) which fed us handsomely. I even indulged in some Nova Scotia cake, yummy, warm and dripping with whipped cream. Thank God this week is coming to an end. Soon I won't be able to zip up my jeans!

As siblings are wont to do, we stayed up yakking far too late or maybe I should say early as it was 5am before we hit the sack only to have Sister #2 rouse us at 8am to hit the road once again. We were almost the filling in a sandwich collision but everyone managed to brake with mere inches to spare. Yes, my belief in the Big Guy or Girl is growing incrementally! The scenery was magnificent as every tree was frosted and laden with heavy snow...truly a winter wonderland. So clichéed but so true. When I appreciate the land this way I sometimes find it hard to envisage leaving it all behind for warmer climes in a year or two. What is winter without snow?

Once home, I crashed. Hubby was at work, the power was out (Hydro One diligently working on something or other) and only Dolly, the cat, to greet me. Feels so good to be home!

On the Road (4)

Jan. 31: Today is sister No. 3's 60th birthday! As is her perogative, she opted out of the pre-dawn yoga class. Believe it or not, sister No. 1 (eldest), me (#3) and baby sister (#4) actually successfully rose before the dawn and did the yoga class! It was abs-focussed so we're all feeling it. The instructor was young (of course), tremendously fit (she seems to spring to her feet like a gazelle...truly inspiring) and surprisingly honest: "This movement is to improve your inner organs and release gas." Which of course people did according to the sudden change in the room odour (as reported by sister #1; I have a poor sense of smell, thank Heavens).

I had a very hard time controlling my inner laughter (I was supposed to be releasing my inner teacher) as it quickly became apparent that sister #4 breathes like a bull in heat. The entire class was silent as we went about the various postures and poses imposed by the yogi except for sister's heavy breathing which was a tad disconcerting. As all breathing is to be inhaled and exhaled through the nose, flying snot was a concern to all. All said, it was a marvelous experience and we finished just as the sun was awakening. I looked out the window to see Lake Temiskaming in all her icy glory, rimmed on the far shore by pre-Cambrian Shield firs, dappled here and there with multi-coloured fish huts, all under a sky turning all shades of pinky purple. Truly a glorious sight.

Once home, of course, we agreed sister #4 and I would x-country ski and the others (being older and less inclined) would shop. Sister #4 is a skate-skier who graciously accommodates my slower classic style but she insisted on the Blue Trail (aka the Trail From Hell). At least my skis were waxed more appropriately to the weather and I could actually ascend some of the inclines before resorting to the old herringbone approach or what I call doing the clodhopper. Nothing is better for the ego than looking like an old penquin on her last legs, criss-crossing skis and hauling ass to get up each hill. But the downslide was exhiliarating if a tad daunting. I'd pass a sign saying "To avoid steep hill" and an arrow. When I'd query sister about the steepness, I'd get: "Oh, it's not so bad; you can do it!" So, like a fool, I did it, praying the whole time I wouldn't break a leg and have to give up expensive non-refundable air tickets to Florida.

Suffice to say, we survived, spent a few calories which dinner more than replaced. We tried to watch 2 videos: Wild Hogs and Jindabyne, but too much food and wine saw Wild Hogs go by with 3 of us sleeping soundly as John Travolta and his cronies caroused, but I'd highly recommend Jindabyne which we only picked up because I like actress Laura Linney. It's a moral tale and Baby Sister's husband surprised us all when he said he'd do the same thing as the men in the movie. Well, you'll just have to watch this movie to know what decision I'm talking about but we were aghast!

Today: Baby sister and her friends want to see Elton John who is coming to the Sudbury Arena so we were all tasked with getting on the phones and/or internet to reserve tickets. The box office opened at 10am so the pyjama gang is doing their thing while drinking coffee spiked with creamy booze. What a way to live! I fake success just to get the old girls' heart rates up but ultimately no one gets through until the darn thing is all sold out. They'll have to make do, if they're lucky, with scalper's tickets.

The plan today is to dine with one of Baby Sister's best friends, Linda -- yum! Chinese food -- like we need to eat more! Then we'll head to North Bay to visit our Baby Brother and, weather depending, either spend the night or move on to home. We never did make it to Sudbury as we'd originally planned as we couldn't raise the relatives there and didn't want to chance arriving at a house with no one home. Of course, it's also possible the spectre of four pre-and post-menopausal women arriving on your doorstep might be enough to make even the most loving of relatives head for the hills! Ciao, bambinos and bambinas!