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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.