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.

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.

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.

EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR BUSINESS…at least they think they do.

One of the idiosyncrasies of small town Ontario that I’ve yet to get use to is the one the lets you think you can live anonymously in your community. If you come from away, you immediately forfeit your privacy. Any unfamiliar face on the street suffers intense scrutiny. Your identity must be made known. The townies will not rest until your past and your present is revealed or, at best, subject to some subtle investigation.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Most new-kids-in-town expect some scrutiny. They’ve taken up a new life, in a new place by choice. Making new friends is part and parcel of fitting in. The prying of new neighbours is, at first blush, kind of fun. Who doesn’t like to talk about themselves?

What is kind of unnerving though, is when they look at you and say,

“Oh, you’re the ones who bought the old such & such place,” and then fall silent, and look at you sideways, watching you try to figure what they really mean.

Case in point. Not long ago my son bought 42 acres of untouched meadow next to a site protected by the Grey/Bruce Conservation Authority. It was an old farm, long abandoned close to Big Bay. It had a sawmill, at one time. The original house, barn and out buildings were removed after the Niagara Escarpment people ordered an Environmental Assessment. (It passed.)

Eventually he will build his family a home there. But right now it sports, a fire pit, a woodshed and a trailer – nothing else. It is his escape from the city.

The other weekend we enjoyed a picnic and some bird watching there. Afterwards we drove to Keppel Croft Gardens www.keppelcroft.com to wander their nature trail. My daughter-in-law was chatting with Dawn the owner. She mentioned that they were up visiting their property. Dawn innocently asked where it was. When told, she immediately responded, “Oh, you’re the ones who bought that old farm…lots of mosquitoes on that property. And you’ve put a caravan there. How long will you be living in it?”

My daughter-in-law destroyed their assumption that they were living in the trailer.  But she did plant the idea that an architecturally different home would soon be built on the land…just to give them something else to talk about.

Now Dawn will be telling everyone that a lovely young couple have taken the old storied farm that stood vacant for so long, under their wing.

Word sure gets around, doesn’t it? Well, at least now, they have a clearer picture. The owners of the old farm are no longer anonymous.

If you’ve ever played competitive sports, team or individual – on any level – you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about intimidation! It is there, in your face, physically and verbally as an intrinsic part of any game. Your opponent, the crowd, the other bench is constantly trying to get under your skin, using the body or anything else that’s legal or illegal to throw you off your game. And the one thing you CAN’T DO is wilt, bow to the pressure and let them beat you mentally and physically. The unwritten rules are – stand up and take it, then give as good as you get…or better.

Right now, Stephen Harper and his Conservative Party are trying to intimidate Canadian voters. Not directly, but through insidious attack ads targeting Liberal leader Michael Ignatieff. By trash talking Mr. Ignatieff, they are telling us that we are not capable of making our own decisions.

The ads describe him as a cosmopolitan, absentee quasi-Canadian, a carpetbagger unfit and unworthy to assume that he could be Canada’s next Prime Minister. Seems to me that’s like saying Gandhi was not Indian because he spend his formative years in South Africa and the United Kingdom. But then, consider Mr. Harper’s love of the late Mr. Bush and U.S. Republicanism and you have the pot calling the kettle black. And didn’t the Republicans work their butts off to attribute the same elitist status to the Harvard-educated Barrack Obama. Now that didn’t work. Did it?

Marketers will tell you the investment in attack ads are necessary because they work. True, Mr. Harper’s trash talking of the last Liberal leader was effective. So now, he’s back on the negativity bandwagon. We’ll see. Mr. Ignatieff is an altogether tougher, smarter, and more resilient opponent. His intellectualism and worldliness are not weaknesses. Mr. Harper’s back-alley tactics, tendency towards ridicule and bully attitude, I think, are.

Do the Conservatives believe that Canadians are incapable of forming their own opinions? I believe those personal and scurrilous TV spots do the exact opposite. And I resent being the target of trash talk from the leader of my country. There are so many more important and critical issues at stake today. Perhaps Mr. Harper should put his party’s money to better use and debate those with his opponent.

Mr. Harper, I don’t like the way you play the game.      

*Note:

I apologize for this political rant. It is not what this blog is all about. But, sometimes, something comes along and you just need to say what your thinking. I will get back to blogging about ‘nothing’ shortly.

Thanks for your patience and undertanding.                                                                                                                                  

Certain aspects of business in Port Elgin and Southampton seem to be infected with a disturbing malady. Business people and people of influence appear possessed. They are obsessed with BIGNESS and you can see it all around us.

It all began in earnest when Wal-Mart came to town.

The massive façade of its cavernous building sits well back off the road. In front of it is room for more development. Word is that a BIGGER Canadian Tire is on the way. Inside is a grocery store and anything else you might want. The sheer size of it has prompted the local supermarket to purge slow selling merchandise and rearrange its own interior to allow for wider aisles and therefore more grocery product. And, no doubt, these actions are also a reaction to the new mall directly across the street, built specifically for a new giant, big box type drugstore. This, in turn, gave rise to the long-time local small street corner druggist pulling up his roots and moving out of the downtown core to a BIGGER building closer to Wal-Mart. The dominos continue to fall because the local storefront drugstore in Southampton has plans to leave historic High Street for a BIGGER venue on the main highway, almost kiddie-corner to the BIG new Tim Horton’s.

These are only a few small examples. But they illustrate the point…BIG is all-pervasive in our tiny community. We even have the BIGGEST Canadian Flag around as a tourist attraction.

There are those who decry this phenomenon in defense of the little guy. There are those who say onward and upward. The battle lines are being drawn between citizens who warn that BIG will destroy Quaint and entrepreneurs who live by the maxim BIGGER IS BETTER.

It all reminds me of that Tom Hanks movie – BIG. A young boy, unsatisfied with his life so far, asks a carni ‘wish machine’ ZOLTAR SPEAKS to make him older. Overnight, he grows BIGGER. But the frustrations of adulthood make him wish he was a child again. So much so that he seeks out ZOLTAR SPEAKS to reverse the process.

But, the analogy begs the question. What is the better road? Leave well enough alone? Lead, follow or get out of the way? Go BIG or GO HOME?

I’ve experienced both sides of the argument. There is a lot to be said for each. Reality teaches that progress is hard to hold back. And money talks. Trouble is  – as we have seen in both the U.S. financial sector and the North American Automotive Sector – BIG has a tendency to eat its young.

I never considered myself part of a demographic. Never, that is, until I was notified of my eligibility to receive compensation for being of a certain age. Canada Pension wanted to give me back a meager portion of the countless dollars I had contributed all my working life.

            “Well, that’s OK,” I thought. “I’ve earned it. But, is that all there is?”

            What I realized, right then and there, was that I was now considered different.

My new classifications were Retired, Senior Citizen, Pensioner, a full-fledged member in good standing in the Golden Age Club and one step above Baby Boomers. As someone in their sunset years I am a statistic in that target group marketers and advertisers pursue with diligence and diffidence.

            I don’t like being pigeonholed much less being considered old. All of that ageism comes with the stigma of someone who can finally spend the rest of their life on the golf course, taking bus tours, gardening, looking after their grandchildren, reading or getting lost in that insidious little screen.

            I have learned, though, that there are those of us who, as Dylan Thomas said, rage against the dying of the light. We are the retired ones who don’t considered ourselves retired. We still get involved by spending our days actively pursuing whatever it is that keeps our brains from going soft.

            I met a group of these very people the other day at the Legion in Owen Sound. I was there to attend a lecture sponsored by the Kiwanis Golden K Club. The primary purpose of their organization is geared to helping others. They spend their days in volunteer work. They were sharp in their observations and decisive in what they wanted to do.

They were smiling and friendly to an outsider like myself. These folks, much older than I, stay committed in spite of their personal health problems.

            Some say that in old age we become like children again. If so, there was a childish delight in how they went about their business. There was innocence in their attitude belied by a sense of purpose honed by years of experience. In short, they were sharp. Not old.

            They were elders.

            And doesn’t that term have a resonance to it. Elders. Our First Nations respect and seek the advice and council of their Elders. It’s the same with other indigenous peoples. They’ve done so for decades because with age comes experience, wisdom and knowledge that the young have yet to encounter.

            Perhaps we need to do away with all the labels sewn into the fabric of those who have reached that time in their lives. Give us our due. Call us Elders. And we will pass on all that we know of this world.

The wooden dragon looks out over the beach and sees what winter has done to the once clean sand. The remains of winter driftwood litter the shoreline, a soggy carpet of twigs and branches woven together in a haphazard pattern tight enough to keep water in and light out.

Larger logs, tossed in from somewhere by way of winter squalls dominate the rocks, their size gives them the right of position and waves cannot move them.

 

 

Trees lie like snakes in the sun. They bury themselves in the sand waiting for spring’s warmth. They give seagulls sanctuary, a place to rest and watch on a perch that remains immoveable, sand-buried by water. Some lakewood comes already ripped smooth by man’s machines. Some lie helpless, reaching out with grotesque, misshapen fingers. Their shadows reach out to you, mysterious and menacing. Some have lain in the sand season after season, bleached, worn,
weather-weary and overgrown with weeds. Some sit proudly waiting for something. They look out over the water to distant shores, patiently watching. They know that man will come to gather their remnants. They know that winter has abandoned them to spring. The people will come to reclaim their beach. The people will either gaze in wonder or wonder when everything the driftwood has built over the long winter will be taken away. When only those pieces white with age remain…

…will the wild, reckless, inscrutable driftwood give way to summer flowers?

Scatter the Cats were well into their set as the clock wound down to 8:30 PM. Before the lights went out they finished their number and moved themselves and their instruments off the stage and on to the floor. Then someone hit the switch and the Paisley Town Hall Theatre went off the grid. We were officially part of Earth Hour 2.0.

This theatre is big and airy. Its large windows, displaying a delicate tracery were designed to let in a much light as possible. And here we were turning off the lights to let in the dark. The architects of this fine Georgian/Regency style building would be scratching their heads. 

Previously charged by solar panels, a couple of lamps trained down on the band seated on the floor in front of the now dark stage. They started playing again. Hunched over their instruments in the darkness they looked almost primitive. Their un-amplified singing carried without the support of  microphones. The audience sitting at tables, squinted through the dim glow of tea candles and stomped their feet in time to the music. There was a cozy, campfire feel to the scene.

But Earth Hour wasn’t our only reason for being there. The Celtic Music Concert featuring Scatter the Cats and later, The Thogs, was a fundraiser for the South Grey Bruce Youth Literacy Council – http://www.sgbyouthliteracy.org.

The Council and their friends at Back Eddie’s – backeddies.com – got one local Irish and one local Scottish band together, on the same stage, all for a good cause…to raise a little awareness and much needed funds for the south Grey Bruce Youth Literacy Council.

Scatter the Cats are regional favourites of the Fiddlefern Dances in Owen Sound, Summerfolk, Goderich Celtic Festival and town halls all over the county. These five talented multi-instrumentalists switch up on banjo, flute, guitar, acoustic bass, mandolin, fiddle, bouzouki, ethnic rhythm and percussion. They are great entertainers who appeal to the Irish in all of us.

The Thogs, regulars at the Kincardine Scottish Festival, generally misbehaved while conjuring up misty Scottish moors through the songs of Robbie Burns, old folk songs and songs about the Rock. Their mandolin player was a treasure…technically brilliant and heartfelt at the same time.

While the lights were still out the Pie Auction – pies and pastry freely given by local culinary artists – were going for as high as $45.00 each. The audience was doing their bit by contributing to a good cause while conserving energy. Does it get any better than that?

When the lights came on music continued to fill the concert hall from the stage to the floor and up to the balcony. Earth Hour had come and gone but no one could really tell if turning out the lights, at that point in time, made any significant difference in our lives. If Ontario energy consumption only went down 6% as reported, what was accomplished?

What the people in the hall realized, though, was that by supporting literacy the direct benefits would give individuals the ability to read and understand for themselves what the need to protect our environment through conservation is all about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m heading out on Highway 26 driving to Owen Sound and I’m Riding with the King…B.B. King, the Beal Street Blues Boy recognized by peers and fans alike as “King of the Blues.”

It’s a cold, grey Saturday afternoon. Overhead a hawk is cruising on the wind looking down on beige farm fields hoping to find some lunch. Spring melt water fills the ditches to the level of the road. Mud-caked cattle meander about absently mindedly watching cars whiz by. And on CBC Radio 2, the single note solo lines from B.B.’s hollowbody Gibson accompany me on my way down the road.

I’m going to the Opera and I’m struck by the contrast between what I’m hearing and what I’ll be seeing.

I’m going to a live performance of La Sonnambula, Bellini’s masterful Bel Canto melodrama featuring Natalie Dessay, a tiny, impish French soprano with a big beautiful voice. As I listen to B.B. King’s raspy singing of The Thrill is Gone, the comparison to what will be Dessay’s incomparable performance of Ah! Non Credea Mirarti, makes me smile.

Contrast indeed! In the space of an afternoon I will experience the down and dirty reality of the blues played and sung by a master who freely admits that guitar chords are his weakness, and then, the brilliance of a composer who writes for classically trained voices skilled at performing grand melodies with soul. The two really are one in the same.

I think back to all the times I spent listening to Saturday Afternoon at The Opera on CBC. I knew I would never – ever be able to afford the $375.00 for premium seats at the Met, let alone the cost of a weekend in New York City. I remember those long nights in the record library at Ryerson’s CJRT, combing through the Blues Section for every B.B. King disc I could find. The Blues and Opera…I love them both, eclectic as that may be.

But today, on the way to Owen Sound– I got to listen to a documentary on ‘the king’ and for a measly $21.80 (for seniors) I get to watch Live in HD, grand opera from The Metropolitan Opera Company at the Galaxy Cinema… popcorn an option.

Two for one. Times have changed.