Winter Sunset on Edward Street

WINTER WINE

I’m making wine. It’s not my first time. I’ve been making wine for years. In Toronto, I had the luxury of a basement. Here, in Southampton, there is no basement. Just a narrow laundry room. When you open the door and walk in the odor of fermenting grapes hits you in the face. It takes me back – back to when I was a child living in Sault Ste. Marie.

My grandfather owned a large corner lot not far from the employee entrance to the Algoma Steel Plant. He had enough land to build two houses separated by a courtyard with a big garden plot behind that ran the length of the property. We lived in the corner house that also had a candy store and my uncles’ barbershop. After school I would help out by sweeping the cut hair into a hole in the floor. On weekends I would shine shoes. Once I got caught stealing licorice pipes from the candy store. My uncles told me, ‘next time, just ask.’

Making wine reminds me of my grandfather’s wine cellar. As a child I remember it as a vast underground cave that ran deep under the houses and courtyard, long and cavernous, divided into locked rooms some with stacked barrels, another with a stained wine press, one with sausage, salami, bresaola and prosciutto dangling from racks like cobwebs, a room where shelves filled with jars of fruits, vegetables, jams, sausage in oil, and sugo (tomato sauce) covered the walls. Finally there was the room with a long stainless steel table and a rack of knives, cleavers and grinders, the room where I watched my father, grandfather and uncles turn lifeless carcasses into food for the family.

In the fall, rectangular cases of grapes, dripping juice and followed by fruit flies, where delivered and stacked next to the wine press. Soon the odor of fermenting wine from open barrels filled the underground cavern and seeped upstairs into our house. The smell lasted for weeks and only disappeared when the ‘purple pop’ (as I called it) was racked and sealed in aging barrels. Every week they would draw a sample, taste, shake their heads and hammer the bung back into the barrel. And then, months later, they would open the spigot, draw a glass, taste and smile. A pitcher would then be poured, a salami taken from the rack and sliced, fresh bread was ripped apart and the celebration began. I was allowed a glass of the winter wine mixed with 7Up and then sent upstairs. My grandfather, father and uncles wouldn’t leave that room for quite some time.

So now, in my mind, as my winter wine ferments away my adult imagination recalls those days. The magic of wine making in my house is not the same, though. There is no cavernous, multi-room cellar. My wine ferments in a plastic pail sitting beside the furnace…in my laundry room. Times change.

My Winter Wine ferments in a plastic tub. No gravitas there.

My Wine Cellar - a cold room under the stairs.

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,700 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

TIS THE SEASON

A Celtic Christmas Blessing
May peace and plenty Be the first to lift the latch On your door And happiness be guided to your home By the candle of Christmas. Come the New Year, May your right hand be always stretched out In friendship And never in want. •••

GARLIC POACHERS

For the last few years I’ve had great success cultivating garlic. Cloves for my first planting came from Smith’s Apple Orchard. Grow local they say.

They were big, white cloves that produced rich green curly scapes in early summer. We learned how to use them in salads, soups, sauces, toppings, and pastas and how to cook with them. Then in mid-July we took our first harvest. We were rewarded with big fat bulbs whose colour went from white in some to a light purple in others. Some were saved for the next planting. Some went to friends and family.

Each fall we would till and fertilized the small bed, planting two rows, then four last year. Each summer the results were the same.

Until this summer. The buds were not as big as before. So we delved into farmer’s lore and decided to rotate our crop, moving the planting to another side of the garden. After laying down a layer of mulch we considered our work done until spring.

Today I just happened to walk behind the garden shed to discover that my garlic garden had been attacked. Holes had been dug along the edges. Earth was piled here and there on top of the mulch. The garlic patch was under attack. Now there are really only two creatures that can dig like that…raccoons and skunks. I know this because I watched them destroy my lawn a few years back when we had an infestation of grubs.

Alas, this is a sad state of affairs. Who knows how many cloves they managed to gobble up? Who knows if they will be back? Who knows how to keep them away?

We can only hope that the now frozen ground will be deterrent enough.
I can’t help smile, though, at the thought of a raccoon reeking of garlic. Or even worse, how lethal these skunk raiders must be. They can spray you or unleash their garlic breath on you…deadly at both ends. Just another reason to avoid these poachers if you catch them in the act.

Skunks and Racoons? One or both are doing damage to my garlic bed

MAYBE IT’S ME!

“You have notifications pending.”

The message popped into my email inbox. It felt like a reprimand from one of my high school teacher/priests. Recently I logged out of Facebook because I saw no reason to waste my time there. (No offense to all my ‘friends’). Still the notifications and comments come. I thought I was done with all that. Obviously membership in that social network is like membership in a street gang or the mafia…you’re never out completely.

On top of that, I’ve spent the last few days playing catch up with the planned obsolesce thrust upon anyone who owns any device from Apple. In order to stay connected I’ve had to download upgrades for my laptop, desktop, iTouch, iPad and iPhone (yes, I have all the toys) or be left behind. Without the latest operating systems I would be lost to the world, forbidden a fully functional roll in the ether or should I say The Cloud. Because I failed to stay up to date some of my files were rendered unsupportable: believe me the feelings of loss, anger and frustration were palpable. There are too many passwords to remember.

‘Simplify, simplify, simplify,’ said Mr. D, Thoreau. What with so many applications, so many games and so many sites pushing so much information there is too much to keep up with and no time to keep things simple.

Twitter has trivialized the world. In 140 characters the detritus of people’s lives, the superficial urgings of private agendas spills on to your screen. The only ways to stop it is to unfollow or log out.

Yes, we have the choice of being there or not. I am probably one tiny squeaky negative voice in the vast multitude. The irony in this is that I maintain this blog. And I’m writing this post…complaining. 

And this is nothing new. Back in 1807 William Wordworth reacted to the first Industrial Revolution with this sonnet: He was right then and he’s still right. OK. I’ll stop now.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US        The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

 

A NOVEMBER DAY

Wind whipped the overhead wire back and forth in a tight oscillating pattern. Gripping tightly with its tiny claws the Shrike wavered slightly but, as birds do, it held on. We stopped quickly. C. and N. were beside themselves with excitement as the window went down and the binoculars came out. On their urging, I grabbed my camera and opened the car door both at the same time. The wind blew it closed on my leg that was half in and half out. I swore, pushed it open and clicked away. A sighting documented cannot be argued with. And getting on the list is what its all about.

It wasn’t the greatest day for shooting; typical November weather, grey, overcast and blustery. The Shrike was a “bird by chance” on our way home down the Allenford Road.

Birders have this unique ability to scan countryside and drive at the same time. It also helps to have good brakes since stopping suddenly and often is part of the routine.  We had been out birding. Or rather the Owen Sound Field Naturalists, heavily stacked with members of the Bruce Birding Club, were. I was just along for ride. My objective was to shoot some pictures.

November has colours all its own. November is all brown, wet, beige, golden, dark and gunmetal grey. You could see it in the grasses as they bent to the wind, their bushy beige heads waving in unison.

But, there is a chill-infused brilliance to November. You can see it when the early sunsets bring a light that is a photographer’s dream. But not today, today was typically bleak.

There was one blast of colour, though. A tiny Oxeye Daisy lay close to ground beside a big rock, the white of its petals and the depth of its yellow centre bordered by its rich green leaves, stood out sharply among the surrounding dark earth and pebbles.

It was well past its time. But for some reason it decided to bloom bold and rich in spite of the lateness of the season. Such contrast can only leave you with a smile.

THE TORONTO HOUSE

Browsing through iPhoto I found pictures of our Toronto house. They were pictures of its last day.

Originally it was a cottage on farmland that existed in that part of North Toronto. Over the years the house was transformed into a story and a half, many times renovated by its many owners. The basement leaked, as did the roof that flared out like a bell at the eaves collecting snow which turned into an ice dam during the cold of winter.

There were many problems with the Toronto house. But, we lived through them spending large amounts of money rectifying as many as we could. In the end we let the Toronto house go to developers. To live in it through our retirement years would required an infusion of cash that we weren’t prepared to spend. I don’t know why I bought that house. I never should have.

The Toronto house was a focal point. It was the only home our youngest daughter knew for 28 years. My son spent hours in the dark, damp basement honing the craft he now practices. To my two older daughters the Toronto house became a revolving refuge until they asserted their independence. In later years family and friends flowed through like waves reaching for the shore. Looking at the pictures brought back so many memories.

Memories, I find are stronger than any structure. Old age is perhaps the only force that memories can’t defend against. Age can dim them such that they are only sporadically recalled. Memories do last, however, because they are passed on building on a foundation that doesn’t crumble – that can’t be destroyed by a machine.

The Toronto house doesn’t exist anymore. Memories of it do, though.

DISCRETIONARY TIME

One of the promises of retirement was the luxury of time.

I had lived a professional life of long days and working-weekends filled with projects dictated by deadline after deadline. The allure of time, free of constraints, was one of the key reasons I left the world of advertising. In my retired world, no one would be asking “when can we see the work.” I would be the time keeper. I would do things on my own clock, on my own terms, in my own way.

One of the first was reading Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, all three, two-inch thick volumes. Six and a half years later I have plowed my way through Volume One and only half of Volume Two. I got bogged down by his complex two page sentences and rambling chapter long paragraphs. Because I had so much time on my hands, it was easy to put the book aside until another day. No doubt I’ll finish it in another six years. It really doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that I made that decision without fear of consequence. There were no outside mandatories hovering over my head. This does not mean that I walk away from all my home grown obligations. I simply gauge the need and act accordingly. One can think of it as Discretionary Time.

Discretionary Time is budgeted according to need and desire. The ratio between needing to mow the lawn and the desire to do so depends on the heat of the day and your energy level. The balance between cleaning out the garage and the desire to sit in the shade depends on whether you want to read more of Proust and how cold the beer is. You get the idea.

Discretionary Time allows you to spend your days wisely without waste. It is an economic model, a simple algorithm, a sophisticated process that helps you regain your sanity while letting you get away with things you never thought you could.

Everyone should ultimately invest in Discretionary Time. It pays great dividends.

PICTURES OF ALASKA

The Columbia River Bar was behind us. We were well away on the downhill run to San Francisco, moving at 17 knots before a following sea. Grey skies minimized visibility. This far out, though, there really was nothing to look at except steep swells. But Regatta rode them with little effort. We’ve sailed over 3974 nautical miles. It was well worth the trip. The Captain said we’d be under the Golden Gate Bridge and past Alcatraz Island around 5:30 AM. I was awake but the usual morning fog probably didn’t help with the view.

A blast from the ship’s horn stired me out of my half sleep. The falling tether lines were loud enough to wake me completely. A tug pushed a large barge right under our balcony with steely bang. Diesel fumes rose up into our stateroom. They are refueling the ship. In a couple of hours it sails for the Panama Canal. We have been instructed to disembark no later than 9:00 AM and that’s that. What will stay with me when I’m back on shore and homeward bound? Pictures….