The Snow Blower Brotherhood.

The snow blows horizontally here in Southampton. That’s one of the first things we noticed during the first days of our first winter in our new hometown. The squalls come in off Lake Huron and blow down the Saugeen River behind our house, sculpting drifts that shift with the wind leaving my driveway sometimes clean and most times buried.

Having lived in Sault Ste. Marie and Montreal, I’m no stranger to snow, deep or drifted. But living in Toronto spoiled me with those once-or-twice-a-winter storms. So, I had to get used to shoveling all over again. And it hurt. It hurt my back. It hurt my knees. It hurt my self-image of having the never-ending strength of someone use to hard, physical work.

Finally, after four years of digging out after the snowplow passed…after enviously watching my neighbours effortlessly clear their snow with mechanical ease…after a continually aching back, I realized that joining them was the only way my aging body would survive future winters.

So, I bought a snow blower.

And, it’s a beauty. I got me a red, Honda HS724 with Hydrostatic Transmission and electric everything. It has tracks instead of wheels. I can control the angle and height of the chute with a video game type toggle, no manual cranking, no manual anything. Just set it and go, forward or reverse. Twenty minutes and I’m done. I’ve never been happier.

Right now, there are cleaning patterns to work out, wind direction and speeds to content with, all of which are proving to be a pleasant learning curve.

My neighbours have all been by to inspect and comment on my new machine. And they approve.

Now, after the squalls have had their fun, I don my lined Kamicks, my Tough Duck bib overalls, my Honda Red Parka, pull on my toque, take up my position behind my machine and turn the key. It starts first time, every time. Then I set her in gear and follow her to the driveway. I raise my hand to my neighbours – the sign of the brotherhood – and then I blow snow…with a smile on my face.

EMPTINESS

I go searching for something to blog about on this cold, grey November day. Thoughts always come to me when I’m out and about.

Ice fog is lifting off the Sauble Beach Parkway, hovering over the tops of the trees waiting to see if the sun can squeeze through the clouds to burn it away. The ceiling is too low though and it looks like rain.

The parking lot of my favourite breakfast spot is empty. Since we are well into the off-season I fear they might be closed. They’re not. But they are empty. Its a strange feeling given the crowds they cater to from May 24 to Thanksgiving. From my window seat I can see that ‘emptiness’ is all around me.

Main Street Sauble Beach is shuttered up tight for the winter. The plywood and such covering the windows and doors of the gift shops and restaurants add to the tackiness of the scene. This street screams ‘beach town’ at the best of times. You don’t notice it that much in summer because of the crowds. Summer people come here in droves and bring their big city ways with them filling in every ounce of space on both the street and beach.

I’ve always wondered why Southampton and Port Elgin don’t suffer this fate. They seem to rise above it. I’m not being critical here…just a personal observation.

But, it doesn’t matter now. The town is empty. The beach is empty. The stores are empty. I drive an empty shore road and a great calm descends on me. I realize why I love this time of year. It is still. No crowds madly rushing off in all directions at the same time. No craziness.

I drive on to the beach. I can park wherever I want and not pay the customary fee.  Walking in solitude I get lost in the emptiness.

The peace and quiet of the approaching winter is on the land.

BIRDING

Early on a November Sunday.

The sun had melted the frost that came by night and the remaining moisture hung in a haze over the Sound. The grass was still green. A few leaves, drained of colour remained on the trees. The day started out warm and comfortable. It was a typical ‘British Morning’. So says Peter, our guide for the day.

I am here looking out over Owen Sound with Birders from the Owen Sound Field Naturalists. Now, I am not a birder. Far from it. But, I am outside, under an unbelievable blue sky, in the company of people who find staring at waterfowl from a distance, fascinating. They come armed with books; binoculars and spotting scopes, which make birding, look like a very expensive hobby.

As the day, progresses, and we scoot from location to location, literally circling the Sound from one shore to another searching for different species of ducks, geese and biggest genus of sea gull in the world…I am impressed. I am impressed with the fine points of difference between ducks and greater and lesser geese recently arrived, thanks to the shift in jet stream, from different parts of Canada’s north.

And there were firsts for me as well. I saw pure white Snow Geese for the first time. I had never seen Snow Buntings before. They’re big. And their winter plumage gives them hawk-like colouring. Across from the grain elevators on the foreshore just in front of the weeds a Great Blue Herron stood silent as a sentry.

Its regal head turned slowly as if watching me watching it through the binoculars. It too, is big.

I learned that is it OK to talk, but softly, as you approach birds sitting close to shore. You won’t spook them this way. They know you’re not a threat if they hear and see you. Why? Because predators move swiftly and silently.

I learned that birders never stop birding. A prime example of this happened on Grey Road One as we drove past Cobble Beach. Peter, from the open window in the lead vehicle, frantically waving and pointing skyward, suddenly pulled off the road. We scrambled to follow suit without a long rear-ender. He jumped out and ran from car to car. There up in the sky, just above us, a Bald Eagle was gracefully riding the wind off Georgian Bay in lazy circles. It must have been a crazy sight to the motorists that zipped by us…14 people with binoculars trained on a dark, white-headed bird who couldn’t care less.

Birders know what to look for and where. They love nature. They love the land. They know what they’re doing. And I would follow them again just to be amazed at a world most of us tend to ignore.

Peter discovered this epitaph on a grave in Suffolk. The author was not recorded but the date was 1560:

The wonders of this world,

The beauty and the power,

The shapes of things,

Their colours, lights and shades:

These I saw.

Look ye also, while life lasts

Good advice.

Molly the Mouser

Molly is a cat that couldn’t care less. She is content to sleep most of her life away. All she wants are her treats, some catnip and of course your undivided attention when she demands it. Don’t expect anything more from her. She will only come to you for scratching and stroking when she feels like it. When she’s had enough, she will leave. Try to make her do what you want and she will scream at you incessantly until you let her be. Molly deals with you on her terms. Don’t expect anything more.

She was six years old when we took her in. We’re not sure what breed she is. We think she’s a Maine Coon. That’s not important, though. Whatever she may be, Molly is a beautiful longhaired tabby.

N. rescued her from a house already populated with a dog and three cats. When she first saw her, Molly was sitting, Buddha-like, high atop a hutch, as far away as possible from the surrounding confusion. Her attitude hasn’t changed much.

Now and then there are sparks of aggression. She will sit with me in the evening and allow me to pet her. Then after a ten or so minutes her ears go up and her tail flicks in agitation. Suddenly she bats my hand with her paws and bites. Now this cat has no claws front or back. But her teeth are needle sharp. She’ll fight with me for a minute or two, and then leave.

Molly isn’t much of a stalker either. Birds, chipmunks and squirrels ignore her. It is as if they know she isn’t much of a threat to their lives. I’ve seen her on our deck slinking towards finches and chipmunks. But nothing ever comes of it.  This cat is no hunter.

Or so we thought.

The other night, in the family room, a tiny mouse ran from under the chesterfield, along the baseboard and behind the TV. Molly saw it and to our surprise reacted like a real cat. But before she could pounce, the mouse, terrified by this creature no doubt, made it safely back under the sofa. Molly followed. Nothing happened. We went to bed. Normally she races us to the bedroom. But not tonight, tonight she stayed…watching.

We didn’t feel her presence on our duvet until about four AM. She was more rambunctious than usual and for some reason, tried to wake us up.

Later that morning we found the mouse. When I lifted the blanket off the sofa the poor thing fell to the floor. It lay on the carpet on its back, legs flailing, unable to right itself, unable to run and hide. It was injured and helpless. Our blasé cat was elsewhere…sleeping.

Obviously Molly the Mouser spent the night toying with the poor creature. After she tired of annoying her quarry she must have tucked it between the cushion and blanket and retired for the night.

We never, ever thought she had the killer instinct in her. It was latent, deep in the blood, I guess…

Molly is still sleeping. And after a night of mousing she probably believes she needs the rest. Molly has debunked her own self-created myth…she is a real cat after all.

DRUM CORPS

You give up everything to test your limits. And when you’re done you discover you don’t have any.

Drum Corps do that to you.

You abandon your individuality for the collective good of the Corps. You sacrifice your youth for that one elusive prize.

Drive, sweat, execution, endless repetition, exhausting rehearsals, impatient instructors, long bus trips, little sleep, the relief of that last note, the anxiety of the retreat, all that and more are gladly tolerated, no, welcomed if it leads to victory. Perseverance, determination and resistance in the face of defeat; overcoming disappointment, moving on and moving up when you’re constantly finishing second, third or worse…that’s what makes you strong.

It comes from sharing a singular goal with dozens of like-minded friends. Every one of them has the same purpose…excellence…perfection. And throughout the entire process, the intensity of it all bores into your brain and you don’t even feel the pain.

I relived it all last weekend. Everything flashed in front of my eyes in delirious déjà vu at the DCA National Championships.

The talented musicians on the field were head and shoulders above anything we did back in the day. The maneuvering was more intricate and demanding. The sidestepping drum lines were brilliant, aggressive and loaded with attitude. Having once been on that field, I felt their excitement, their concentration, and their exhaustion. I knew them all, but I was glad I wasn’t one of them.

This was my life many years ago. A life I reluctantly let go because the real world was waiting for me. Still I brought the life lessons of the Corps with me as I stepped boldly into career, family and the competition of  the business world.

Drum Corps taught me how to work with others – how to win – how to be humble in victory. It gave me a taste of success…a taste I could never forget.

Yes…Drum Corps demand everything you’ve got. And, at the end of it all, you emerge, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, someone different…a champion, and better yet…a better person because you know what it is to struggle for what you believe in.

Keady’s Gelateria

Next to a great old stone church…in the tiny village of Keady, half of which lies within the Township of Chatsworth while the other half is within the boundaries of Georgian Bluffs…on the corner of Grey Road 3 and Grey Road 16…is the last place you would expect to find gelato fatto en casa…homemade gelato.

Keady is well known for its Livestock and Farmer’s Market.  But not for Gelato. At least, not yet. Not if Maria has any say in the matter.

Maria is a lovely lady, Italian of course, who boldly opened Maria’s Ice Cream Parlor, simply because that’s what she wanted to do. She comes from Hamilton with a background in Health Care and a level of enthusiasm that will charm you to pieces. When you meet her you’ll know. And be prepared…Maria loves to talk about anything and everything. She’s an honest, caring, hardworking philosopher/ entrepreneur who believes in what she’s doing. What possessed her to pick Keady as ‘gelato central’ is not really clear.

Nonetheless she and her authentic Italian gelato machines produce the wonderful gelati flavours we came to love when we traveled Italy by train for three weeks.

Gelato isn’t “Italian ice cream” as some people call it. Gelato is closer to ice milk. The Italians found that too much butterfat interferes with the transfer to the tongue of the fresh flavors Italian gelato is famous for. Typical Italian gelato is lower in butterfat. So, it is better for you.

If you live or vacation in Bruce or Grey County take a drive to Maria’s and enjoy.

Maria's is just around the corner.

Turn right at the old stone Church.

Maria is ready to let you sample all the flavours.

REJECTION

I now feel that I can honestly call myself a writer in every sense of the word.

Not because I’ve been lucky enough to have four of my stories published*…even though that does, in a small way, go towards verifying the vocation. No, I have earned the right to say that I am a writer simply because I have been awarded the badge of honour that defines struggling writers everywhere…THE REJECTION LETTER.

My very first arrived the old-fashioned way, by mail. Oh, I’ve had stories rejected before. Silent rejection from editors who simply don’t respond to your submissions. Then there is rejection by email. I mean, really, who wants to paste their walls with printouts. That’s hardly the romantic kind of rejection you see in movies.

Give me Rejection Slips in envelopes that I can tear open in eager anticipation. Give me a short, terse form letter with a hollow last paragraph of pseudo-encouragement so I can crumple it angrily into a ball and send it in a high arc across the room into the waste paper basket without bouncing it off the rim. Swish!

This first-ever, official Rejection Letter congratulated me on being 1 of 110 out of 960 writers that made it to the second round in the competition and no further.

The letter even contained constructive comments on my piece:

• “Story lacks tension and drama…”
• “A lovely story that brings out the kid in the reader…”
• “Not enough of a story.”
• “Dialogue used effectively…”
• “Entertaining, if unrealistic dialogue of a child outwitting adults…”
• “Excellent attempt at all-dialogue essay…”

There you go. Proof that everyone, editors especially, have different opinions on the same thing.

One lesson I’ve learned over the 40+ years I spent in Advertising Agencies as a Copywriter and eventually Creative Director, is that if you believe yourself creative, Rejection comes with the territory. I faced it daily while trying to sell my work to colleagues and clients alike. It didn’t take me long to grow thicker skin. I quickly learned how to dance between the raindrops, how to pitch my stuff to get my ideas accepted and produced. Walking out of a meeting with a sale was an unforgettable high.

Now, as a writer-with-nothing-to-lose, I’m not sure how I feel about rejection. Yes, someone has, at least, taken the time to read my stuff, but I wasn’t there to sell it, defend it, rationalize it. My piece was like a lost or abandoned child alone in the big, cruel world with no one to protect it.

And that teaches me one valuable lesson…one’s writing has to sell itself. So it better be good.

*See ARCHIVES, NOVEMBER 2008 – “My First Time.”

AND – BY THE WAY – IF ANYONE IS INTERESTED IN READING MY REJECTED STORY (it is very short) JUST LEAVE A NOTE IN “COMMENTS”  AND I’LL SEND IT TO YOU.

THANKS FOR THE INTEREST.

A Quickening Of The Heart

I just got back from a couple of days in the Big City…Toronto that is.

For years it was where I lived, the place where I was born, the city I was constantly leaving and inevitably coming back to. On return trips by train, plane or automobile, there were familiar landmarks that quickened my heart, telling me that I was almost home.

Driving up the small rise just before you exit the Queen E on to the Gardner the sight of Lake Ontario’s shoreline and Toronto’s Skyline never failed to make me smile. (So did the slight feeling of being airborne if you hit the rise at the right speed.)

Flying over the city at night was magical. I could spot landmarks from the air. I always knew which runway we were to land on from the direction of our approach. If we banked out over the lake then leveled off, I could see the street where I lived. That’s when the blood returned to my knuckles.

Entering Toronto by train brought me through the bottom of the city. Coming in from the West the lake and greenery of Sunnyside were certainly prettier than the industrial wasteland of the East end. Either way, pulling into the grandeur of Union Station always told me that I was in the city at the centre of the Canadian universe. At least, that’s what Torontonians believe.

But, all of this fails to impress me now. Now, I come to Toronto reluctantly and leave as quickly as I can. Whenever I’m there, I’m always planning my exit.

And this time, as I made my escape, it suddenly dawned on me; Toronto is no longer where I come from. Southampton is. And this reality, this transition happened effortlessly. I can’t remember suffering any withdrawal, homesickness or regret as a result of my leaving.

Racing everyone along the 401 speedway and up the 427, I realized that the pace of the city no longer excited me like it once did. Toronto was no longer my kind of town.

My blood pressure settled as we turned on to Highway 10. We were driving into quietude. There was no construction congestion, just the openness of farm fields freshly ploughed, that vivid just grown greenery breaking out everywhere, the soy bean fields now a brilliant buttercup yellow, all under a great big brilliantly blue sky.

And then, as soon as I saw the Saugeen River beside me on Highway 21, it happened. I knew I was home. Past the Range Light and across the bridge was the harbour with the sun glistening like fool’s gold on the water. That quickening of the heart I once experienced came over me. Only this time Southampton was the inspiration.

Yes, I come from away, as the locals describe us. Yes, I was once a ‘citidiot’ the name they sometimes use when they refer to newcomers. But I consider myself an adopted son now…a Southamptoner (Southamptonite?) I’ve happily traded the shores of Lake Ontario for the shores of Lake Huron, hazy smog for brilliant sunsets, hustle and bustle for peace and quiet, the fast lane for the slow lane, competition for contemplation.

There is a marvelous passage from The Place No One Knew by an unknown author, which sums it all up:

“You want a place where you can be serene, that will let you contemplate and connect two consecutive thoughts…that can stir you up as you were made to be stirred up, until you blend with the wind and water and earth you almost forgot your came from…There must be room enough for time – where the sun can calibrate the day, not the wristwatch, for days or weeks of unordered time, time enough to forget the feel of the pavement and to get the feel of the earth and of what is natural and right.”

I have found that place…right here, in Southampton.

SAUGEEN PALMS

If you’re cruising slightly above the limit along Highway 21, leaving Southampton on your way to Port Elgin, you might miss them.

If you happen to catch a glimpse as you zip by you’ll probably do a double take. I know I did the first time I caught sight of them. When I took a quick look back I just about rear-ended the truck in front of me. These things could become a traffic hazard. But after your first sighting – you tend to ignore them.

I mean, really – Palm Trees, this far north, on the side of the road?  No big deal.

They’ve been there all along. Rght? They must have been covered in deep snow this past winter. Or hidden behind high roadside snow banks like everything else.

But that can’t be. These things would never survive in this climate…even if we do live in Southwestern Ontario. No. Someone in Saugeen Shores has a sense of humour…or loves to indulge in wishful thinking…or just plain likes to play with our heads.

But they are real – two tall Palm Trees outside of Shoreline Stone & Garden Centre between Southampton and Port Elgin…sitting beside a leaning hydro pole, enjoying our cool spring weather…and not a coconut in sight. I do have to say, though, they are looking a little worse for wear. Still getting use to the climate, I guess.

The Twin Palms traveled to our shores all the way from Florida. Obviously they had no problems with the recent heightened levels of scrutiny at U.S. border crossings. I guess you get a pass when you “Buy America.” There go our import/export quotas.

Anyway, if they survive the summer they’ll tough out the winter in the Shoreline’s big plastic enclosure. That way you can visit them when you go to buy your Christmas tree.

Maybe they should stage an annual replanting event. Like letting loose the swans on Fairy Lake or raising the Big Flag down on the beach on the 24th of May. The Bringing out of The Palms could be a rite of spring like May Day celebrations.

But seriously, it is a nice gesture – one that brings a smile to the faces of weather-hardened locals as we anticipate another of our wonderful, albeit, short Saugeen Shores summers.

WATERING YOUR CONCRETE

My grandfather believed in keeping his family close. It was the old country in him. So, when he settled in Sault Ste Marie he set about creating a home, a compound actually, where his three sons and their growing families could live and work – never more than a few steps from each other.

He bought a corner property with two houses separated by a courtyard that had a garden behind it. The corner house became a barbershop for my two uncles and a candy/variety store for my aunt. My parents lived upstairs. Everybody else lived across the courtyard in my grandfather’s house. It had a big kitchen for Wednesday and Sunday dinners and the only access to the cold cellar and wine cellar under the courtyard.

On spring, summer and fall mornings my grandfather would tend his garden then sit on an old chrome-framed kitchen chair with the stuffing coming through the cracked plastic seat, hose in hand, watering down the courtyard. I would bring him his espresso.

After he drank it down in three gulps he got up and systematically started at one end,  driving the water down the surface towards the street. Then he would walk back to the top and repeat his actions. First he set the nozzle to shoot out one tight line of water…to loosen the stubborn dirt. Then he would go back over everything with the nozzle set to a spray.

This he did until he was satisfied that the complete expanse of the courtyard was clean. Job done, he would sit and gaze over the wet, glistening concrete surface, quite pleased with himself. When I asked why he did this every morning he looked at me, twisted his gray, handlebar moustache and said, “You need to water concrete every day to keep it fresh. Otherwise it will melt.”

As a gullible youth, I believed him. “I didn’t know that cement was so delicate,” I answered. There was silence.

He looked down at me and shook his head. “No. No. No. Not cement. Concrete.”

“Same difference,” I shot back quickly.

“Adamo, cement and concrete are not the same.”

I was bewildered. “Doesn’t matter. Does it?”

“Cement,” he said, “ is what they use to make concrete. Gravel, sand, cement…you mix them together, with water, and they all turn hard, hard like concrete…because of the water. Which is why you always have to keep your concrete wet.”

Now, as a kid, none of this was important to me. It was just an impish grandfather setting his uneducated grandson straight. But after that lesson, he let me water the concrete courtyard a couple of times a week.

And now, as owner of my own home with a long, concrete driveway, I do what he did those many years ago. I get out my power washer (something he would have loved) and hose down my concrete to keep it fresh.

People passing by look at me like I’m crazy. But I just smile as I wash the dirt down to the street. There are others on my street that also have concrete driveways. But mine is the freshest and cleanest. Because they never water theirs.