Metropolitan Homesick Blues

Southampton Stories & Other Stuff

Archive for the ‘nature’ Category

THE FERAL

leave a comment »

The Feral was awarded Honourable Mention in the 2008 Dorothy Shoemaker Literary Awards Contest and published in The Changing Image by the Kitchener Public Library

The Feral

He sat on the edge of the porch stoop – waiting. It was almost four o’clock. That’s normally when she would cautiously raise her head above the notch in the trunk of the willow and leisurely scan the perimeter.

The old tree’s canopy covered the entire front yard of the boy’s new home. On hot summer afternoons the willow’s welcome shade extended from the edge of the driveway to the porch at the front of the house. Taller than the farmhouse, the great sweep of its drooping branches provided safe haven for birds. The tall grasses around its trunk sheltered small animals. But, they all stayed well away from the deep hole in the notch of the trunk. That’s where she slept for most of the day.

Disturbing her resting place meant trouble for any intruder. The boy experienced this the first week he arrived. In the morning, while waiting for the school bus, he looked back at the willow and plotted the best way to climb it. That notch was just a few feet above the grass. It would be a simple to get a leg up to the main cross-branches and an easy path to the top. Later, after school, instead of homework, he began his conquest of the willow. 

Just as he placed his foot on the notch, a low guttural growl came keening out of the hollow darkness. He tried to peer inside but the high-pitched wail coming from deep within had the voice of imminent danger. Retreating a few steps, he picked up a fallen branch and poked in the direction of the unholy noise. A serpentine hissing and slashing of leaves by invisible claws sent him running to the safety of the porch. 

Something in that sound resonated deep in his memory. Staccato flashes unreeled a loop of incessant screeching and squealing synced to unfocussed pictures of a car on a rain-drenched mountain highway. He put his hands to his face trying to block the flashing light behind his eyes. He did not want a replay of that vision strobing in his mind. It was too painful. He pushed it deeper into his subconscious.  

When he felt calm return he looked back at the willow. That’s when he saw her. They looked into each other’s eyes as if searching for some touch point that would connect them. But it was a long, languid stare full of menace and unspoken warning. 

A slight disturbance in the grass caught her attention. Without a second look she jumped down. She was hungry. It was time to hunt.

The boy watched her slip quietly into the high weeds. “It was just a cat. Thinks she owns the willow,” he told himself. Behind him the screen door squeaked open.

“I see you’ve met the feral,” said his grandfather with a chuckle.

“The what?”

“The cat that lives in the willow. You best leave her be. She can be a mean one if you get too close.”

“Yeah. I saw that,” the boy replied, turning to acknowledge his grandfather’s presence. 

“Feral cats are loners. This one’s no different. She won’t let you near her.”

The grandfather looked directly at his grandson and reached out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. With a shrug that spoke volumes the boy shifted his weight in a way that made the old man hesitate and pull back.

“No, you just can’t get close to her,” he said looking directly at his grandson. It was a summation of the problem between them. 

For weeks now, he and his wife had tried to unravel the solitude the boy had spun around himself. They felt his sadness. They shared his grief. They lost their only child in that accident. With the death of their daughter and son-in-law there was no one else to take the boy. At a time in their life when the stamina and concentration required to raise a child had long left them, they were faced with doing it all over again.

 Children were supposed to outlive their parents. Burdened with the fatigue of old age they only had enough energy to care for each other. Privately, each wondered if they had the will to get through the uncertain years ahead. But, there was no other option. 

Money wasn’t a problem. Most of the farmland had been sold off. They kept the house, the barn and a few acres of forest with a stream running through it. Their plan was a peaceful life of leisure with now and then visits from their grandson. Raising a young boy on their own unsettled them. It was never part of their vision.

His nightmares disturbed them the most. Every night since he arrived they found him standing at the foot of the bed, arms outstretched, reaching for someone or something he desperately wanted to hold. On his face was a pleading look that brought his grandmother to tears. To wake him she softly spoke the name his mother gave him when he was a baby. 

“Adie, I’m here,” she would say gently touching his hand. He would blankly stare at her, then wordlessly return to his bed. The morning after the first incident they asked if he could recall his dream. He looked at them with the same blank stare of the night before and slowly shook his head. They never asked again.

The feral could feel the cycle of her day changing. As it grew warmer she slept longer avoiding the afternoon heat. It was usually well after four o’clock when she climbed out of the cool darkness into the late afternoon light. Satisfied that everything was as she had left it, everything including that young boy watching her from the porch, she sniffed out the remains of the mouse she buried the day before and devoured it. Hunger satisfied she was off to patrol her hunting grounds. The hunt would take her mind off that meddlesome boy. She felt that she had warned him away for good.

Sniffing the air the feral stopped in her tracks. Her muscles tightened and she pressed her body close to the ground. Her fur puffed out catching what air currents and motion she was sensing. Although there was a slight breeze ruffling the grass, she shut her eyes and listened for the high-pitched sound mice make when hunting. Low to the ground, stopping every few steps, she stealthily crept closer to her quarry.  Feeling the distance was right she sprang. The mouse, sensing danger ran. In midair the feral suddenly changed direction. Her instincts were right. With one swift pounce she bit the mouse at the top of its neck, raised and swung her head, breaking the helpless creature’s back. As quietly as she came she left with her prey. 

When she returned to the willow she was startled to see the boy standing there peering into her lair. Instantly hair prickled all over her body. Pupils dilated into slits of anger. She flattened her ears and furiously swished her tail. The mouse fell from her mouth as her low guttural growl let him know he was trespassing. 

The boy’s tentative steps forward infuriated her. Backing up against the willow she flattened herself against the trunk. When he took another step forward she flew at his legs with a fury. But, he was just as quick and jumped back before her claws could find their mark.

“Adam come away!” His grandfather’s voice broke the tension. 

As the boy turned, the feral disappeared into the hollow. She felt safe in the darkness. She knew he was gone but her anger stayed. Sleep finally drifted in and crowded out all the thoughts that were upsetting her tight little world. Her willow was not for sharing. Surely the boy knew this.

Breathing hard Adam stared at the dead mouse. He felt a need to pick it up. He could feel its warmth and noticed a small trickle of blood at the back of its head. The feel of hot metal shot from the dead mouse searing his palm. A flash of memory. He dropped it. Adam stared at his hand. There was nothing there. Still shaking he grabbed the dead creature by the tail, tossed it into the notch of the willow and ran.

Thunderheads towered high in the evening sky. To the North rolling thunder resonated continuously. Sporadic lightning illuminated the dark gathering clouds. Adam was sitting on the porch when he felt a chill cut through him. The willow’s branches swirled helplessly in the roaring wind. Closing his eyes he tried to shut out the familiarity of that sound. Somewhere in the back of his mind a night such as this was waiting to replay the fragments of a painful memory.

“A cold wind always blows before the rain.” 

Opening his eyes Adam saw his grandfather.  Over the old man’s shoulder lightning danced in the sky. A deep rumble of thunder announced the beginning of the evening’s storm.

“We’d better get ourselves inside.”

“Can I stay and watch for a little while?”

His grandfather remembered how his daughter loved to sit on the porch swing during a rainstorm. There was something in a storm that fascinated her. Rain, wind, thunder and lightening dancing in unison seemed to carry her away to another world. He wondered if that could be the reason she lost control. Had she been hypnotized by the storm that night? 

“Can I stay?” 

Reality brought him out of his reverie. With a gentle warning that Adam must come in when rain hit the porch, the old man stepped inside to find his wife. She was probably thinking the same thing.

The feral stirred not wanting to wake from her deep sleep. Sniffing the air she sensed the change in temperature. Above her branches twisted in the wind. Thunder echoed in her hollow chamber. Curling up tighter she tried to make herself invisible as rain fell hard outside her lair. There was protection enough deep in the hollow. Overhead, branches thick with leaves would keep her dry. Breathing a deep, uneasy sigh she closed her eyes content to wait this out.

Lightning lit up the darkness in the yard. With each flash Adam saw the tree’s branches bending back and forth as if an invisible hand held the trunk and snapped it like a whip. Lightning and thunder struck as one all around him yet he stood stoically, mesmerized by the hypnotic repetition of light and sound.

In the fleeting brilliance of each flash his mind began replaying a vision – a car speeding through a night just as this. Heavy rain drenching the windshield, wipers whipping back and forth like the branches of the willow. Without warning lightning seared the night, lighting up fallen rocks in front of the vehicle and just as quickly shrouding them with darkness. In the minuscule moment between light and dark, life and death were decided.

Adam felt himself flying. 

He saw himself standing beside an overturned car staring in at the faces of his mother and father. A nauseating aura of helplessness overcame him as he struggled with a car door that would not open. Tears mixed with rain on his face. Grabbing a small boulder he smashed the window shattering it into small crystals that fell on his hands and arms. Brushing them off he felt the pain of glass cutting into his hands.

“Adie, don’t cry,” he heard his mother say as everything around him receded deep in to the darkest recesses of his memory.

Still heavy with sleep the feral wasn’t sure what was happening. She felt hands close around her body and the lightness of being lifted into space. When the rain hit her she screamed. Obeying her first instincts she dug her claws into the hands holding her and bit down hard. Twisting her body she brought her hind legs up against the pressure and scratched fiercely until the grip on her torso loosened enough for her to squirm away. Landing in the wet grass she looked up and saw the boy standing over her. As his bleeding hands came towards her she ran. 

In a flash of lightning Adam saw her disappear into the deep grass. After the thunder he heard the creaking sound of splitting wood. In the darkness he felt the willow’s branches brushing his body. As he lay on the wet ground he heard his grandfather calling him. With the weight of the branches holding him down he could not answer. 

Drenched and angry the feral watched from a safe distance as a beam of light swept the grass with an agitated sense of urgency. When the beam moved up the willow she saw her home, just above the hollow, charred and still smouldering in spite of the rain. A large branch lay on the ground with the boy beneath it. She shook to rid her fur of the water and watched the beam of light come to rest on the boy.

s “Adam.”

“Mom?”

“Adie, I’m here.”

“Grandma?”

Gentle hands brushed leaves and rain from his face.“He looks OK,”Adam’s mind raced.  Where’s the car? Are my mom and dad safe? What are my grandparents doing here?

Confusion. His mind wildly processing visions, memories, and questions emerging from a buried memory into a startling reality. 

“Adie take my hand, “ said his grandmother. 

Slowly he stood up and allowed himself to be cradled in his grandmother’s arms. 

“Your hands and arms, they’re scratched and bleeding,” said his grandfather. “I sure hope that feral realizes you saved her life. Not that she cares.”

“I remember the accident,” the boy said.

Silence surrounded them. A look of relief passed between his grandparents.

When the rain stopped, the feral cautiously made her way through the tangle of fallen branches to the trunk of the willow. Looking up at the notch she guessed that her home was still habitable. She sprayed so everyone would know, lightning or no lightning, this tree was still hers. Leaping up to the notch she was startled by the strong smell of burnt wood. Gingerly she stepped past the gash left by the ripped branch and into the damp hollow. She circled a few times, kneaded the remains of her wet bedding and curled herself into a tight ball. Sleep is what she wanted. Come morning the sun would dry everything. Life would return to normal. 

And somehow she knew that the boy would not bother her again.

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

April 5, 2020 at 1:38 PM

SLEEPLESSNESS

with 3 comments

img_5335.jpg

At 4:00 AM – when sleep won’t come – I sense a stirring in the darkness.

The night begins to weaken – loses its grip – and allows hints of grey to appear.

The change of light awakens the crows and they begin to call to each other as if to welcome – or at least encourage the sun to appear.

Come 5:00 AM night is almost gone.

By 6:00 AM the light brightens.

And I begin to understand

How slowly up the darkness daybreak climbs.

img_5336.jpg

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

January 17, 2019 at 4:10 PM

BRUCE COUNTY BACKROADS

with 4 comments

img_3780

Side roads. Concession roads. Hardtop and hard-pack gravel. Graded and ungraded. Rutted and rain-eroded. They can get your car dust covered or mud caked depending on weather and which road you’re on. They are Bruce County two-lanes leading you everywhere and not necessarily where you want to go.

img_5269-jpg

We often drive these Bruce County back-roads. She is looking for birds. I’m looking for pictures. I don’t care much about shooting birds. My meager 250 mm lens fails in comparison to some of the big glass that other shooters carry. Most times, birds are just too far way to capture anything decent.

house-1

I’m OK with that. I’m more interested in what was…the abandoned barns and farmhouses, the fences, the fallen in roofs and stone foundations…the what’s-left-on-the-land from times gone away.

img_0627-jpg

The structures that faced years of winds and weather, that struggled to stay upright and remain proud of what they provided to their hard-working owners…structures of shelter and warmth, places, markers that families once called home.

Some markers are different.

tombstone847_o-1

This pockmarked weathered stone, its carved inscription unreadable, sits solitarily, a sentinel overlooking a vista of fields un-ploughed or planted. It seems out of place. More often than not you’ll see clusters of resurrected tombstones sitting on the side of secondary roads salvaged from some long forgotten cemetery to make room for more farmable fields. This one stands alone.

Cloud shadows silently drift across the fields it watches over. Why is it there? Is there meaning in its placement? Or is it just a photo-op for a wandering amateur with a camera? I doubt if I will ever know. But I take the shot anyway and move on.

img_4507

There is a great deal more to discover and capture on these roads.

version-2

So we drive on.

Connect-The-Dots

with 2 comments

Travel is a ‘connect-the-dots-game’. You move, from one point to another at varying speeds, by various modes of transportation until you end up full circle – home. Along the way you experience degrees of discomfort. Airport hotels – small, noisy, uncomfortable, stale one night stands before moving on to the next dot. Airport boarding lounges full of sleep-deprived fellow travelers desperately seeking coffee. One or two night stands in strange places you previously believed would satisfy your ‘inner traveller’. In the days ahead, no matter how hard you try, your sleep clock will remain indelibly set to ‘home time’. Time zones play havoc with your head. Your biorhythms are constantly trying to correct themselves, searching for some inner landmark to anchor your spirit.

Our sleep clocks are set to ship’s time now and the ‘connect-the dots-game begins. We are cruising the Lesser Antilles, island hopping.

Dot2

First light slips through a slit in the drapes. A barely audible rushing sound like water lapping the shore of a Northern Ontario Lake lulls us awake. Opening the sliding glass doors we are slapped with heavy humidity rushing in to take advantage of a new opening. It drives us back into our equally heavily air-conditioned cabin to catch our breath.

The sea is calm. Dawn clouds dot the horizon. The ship’s wake is twisting, swirling white-foamed water rushing away from the white steel hull – dissipating then disappearing – losing its forced form – becoming waves in the softly rolling sea swells.

Boobies skim the sea’s surface. They glide between the troughs, rise up then dive deep into the wake with wings folded tight to their bodies, disappear then bob back up to the surface, sit briefly, then take flight. They repeat their kamikaze attacks again and again creating a rhythm that has dictated their lives for eons.

Dot3

Towering dark cumulus clouds dominate the horizon. We can see the rain lines falling from its gunmetal grey edge. As the ship moves steadily towards it like some jousting knight meeting a challenge, the cloud lifts itself above the horizon revealing a steadily growing gap of burning orange…a haze-fire in the luminous morning mist. Into this opening a red ball slips up from the sea line growing relentlessly. Its light reaches up piercing the cloud’s darkness etching its shape. In an effort to challenge the rising sun, the white-rimmed cloud contorts itself into multiple moguls and towering columns. But the challenge is well met. The now heated rays of the rising sun burn through the cloud’s base forcing the horizon gap to widen and claim the birth of a new day.

FullSizeRender

And then they appear – rocks in the sea born of fire. Oceanic crust and coral thrust upward by colliding sub sea plates moulded by volcanic eruptions and earthquakes, green thick-wet verdant hills running up from sea to sky, cloud shrouded peaks and lush valleys…islands. Cruise islands…more dots to connect. The pilot boat comes rushing towards us.

Dot4

Island to island there isn’t much difference. The port towns are unbearably hot and heavy with humidity. Tight streets and lanes, sidewalks of alternating degrees of narrow, crowded with bewildered tourists looking for bargains in the markets and street side stores. Frigid air blasting from shop doorways (a moment of relief) is quickly sucked up by the humidity.

Each island’s hills are laced with roads twisting and turning their way up to somewhere. There is room only for one vehicle at a time. Passing is precarious because the culverts on either side are wide and deep to carry water downhill. If you slide over to quickly to make room for an oncoming car you could be lost, swallowed up to the axel. Towns, villas, shanties, shacks, abandoned half finished homes and churches, all perched on the hillsides, jut out from the greenery.

Dot5

A rainbow rises from the sea. Rain, fog and mist hang over the deep green hills that run layer after layer into the dark clouds that blanket the mountaintops and slide between the peaks. It is a damp, dreary day. Our guide is driving us deep into the rainforest. Switchbacks, fallen roadside rocks, chewed up asphalt, potholes and washed out roads with cars parked on either side, mean nothing to him. Compared to the claustrophobic congested warren of market stalls on the harbor streets, although treacherous, at least these are open roads. There is beauty in the lush verdant hills even though rain clouds rule their peaks.

And as we drive deeper into the rainforest I wonder if we will ever find a clearing that would give us a view of the surrounding sea.

We climb Mount Sage the highest peak in the British Virgin Islands for a change of perspective. But clouds shroud the land beneath us. There is no sea. There is no island. No dots can be see. There is no connection to landmarks of place or spirit to settle you.

And it is still raining.

Dot1

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

July 11, 2015 at 5:17 PM

CEMETERY ROAD

with 6 comments

I walked the Cemetery Road the other morning. It leads to the remains of Southampton’s original cemetery that lies, long since abandoned on a high, crumbling cliff overlooking the Saugeen River. This road is always at winter’s mercy, as the Town doesn’t maintain it except in late spring.

Attachment-12

A cold east wind soughed through the trees. There was a chill in the air even though the sun did its best to pierce the battlement-like tall cedars that lined each side of the road. The shade from these trees is the reason for the slow melt on the forest floor. Even so, water runs freely in the ditches that hug the shoulders of the damp, rutted, pot-holed road. Overhead a Bald Eagle inscribes lazy circles in an unbelievably blue sky. A sentinel Crow sounds the alarm as I round a turn out of sunshine into shade.

On the road, a short distance ahead of me, I see a man, slightly stooped, slowly walking with the aid of a cane, his gait steady, measured, deliberate. It isn’t long before I’m beside him, my pace now moderated to match his.

“Good morning.” I say. “Great day for a walk.”

He stopped. Smiled. Nodded. “Indeed it is.”

We walked, side by side for a ways, talking of nothing in particular and everything in general. His eyes were bright blue. His smile suggested gentleness. He wore a greying mustache that gave him the rakish look of someone who flew Lancaster Bombers in World War Two. His leather Bomber Jacket with a fur collar fit perfectly with the mental picture I was drawing of my new companion.

“That’s quite a camera you have there. You must be a photographer.”

“No.” I said. “I play at photography. Just a hobby.”

“I had a Mamiya 6. Got it after the war. Fine camera…a lot different than what you’ve got there.”

“Times change,” I said politely.

At that moment I felt myself becoming impatient with the slowness of our walk. That if I wanted to keep chatting, I was compelled to move at his pace. I wondered if he was aware that because of our chance meeting, he had slowed me down…forcing me, however subtly, into his world.

Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. Then again, don’t we all do that every day of our lives…gently steer people to meet us on our terms…to agree with our outlook on life…our thinking…our opinions…to move at our pace? And more often than not, our resistance is a source of conflict in our lives.

“I think I’ll head home now” His words broke through my silly train of thought. “I’ve gone far enough.”

He had no thoughts other than a pleasant walk with a stranger. On this quiet country road this elderly gentleman had reached his limit. I watched him retrace his path leaning on his cane more than before; shoulders hunched…his step a little slower now. “Cemetery Road,” I muttered to myself.

I picked up my usual pace and moved on…not sure of when I would turn back. Before I rounded a corner I glanced over my shoulder, but he was nowhere in sight.

Regrettably, I never asked him his name.

Attachment-1

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

April 20, 2015 at 3:13 PM

THE HILL HOUSE

with 2 comments

House 1

There isn’t much that’s important about the loneliness of an inanimate object.

The idea of whether or not the object in question even feels loneliness or anything else for that matter is, some would say, meaningless; not worth thinking about. To the eye of the beholder, though, this appearance of loneliness can radiate certain feelings, illusions that translate into a need to ask questions.

Like this place. It has always intrigued me. Why was the farm abandoned? When? Is the land still farmed? Where is the family now? Do they even care?

All of these thoughts have been with me since I first saw this crumbling abandoned farmhouse ten years ago just off Bruce Road 3. I ask myself these same questions each time I drive by. Year after year it stands like a sentinel, naked, at the whim of weather and time, on a small hill overlooking its fields.

There is a rough, rutted, snow buried, single lane road that runs uphill to the crumbling house. The fields slope down, running away from it. A fence runs parallel to nowhere. I’ve often been tempted to drive up, to explore, to see if any clues to the house’s history might be lying about.

But I always held back. It would be wrong to trespass. The words ‘leave me alone’ always drifted down to me. ‘Respect my solitude’.

Endurance, not loneliness, is what is in this house. It will stand against time for as long as time will allow. As we all will. One day it will succumb.

Until that day and after, I will have this photograph to remind me of what we must endure.

House 2

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

March 21, 2015 at 12:26 PM

Night Snow

leave a comment »

Snow1

Under the street lamps that pool their light on the now white road wind whips the flurries into individual cyclones whirling about helter skelter. Cedars on the roadside go dark, lost in the shadows, lost in the black of night. In the cone of the streetlights the snow takes on highlights that accentuate its movement. It dances with the wind, blurring in flight, never, it seems, touching down, hovering around and inside the beam’s pool bringing new life to the light. Night Snow is different than snow falling at daybreak…more menacing. You are unsure of what it leaves behind until dawn crawls up the dark trailing early morning light to show you its night work. Night Snow is like a secret gathering, an army, a relentless force building for an attack at daybreak when the world wakes and is forced to face the consequences of all that Night Snow has left behind.

Snow3

Snow4

 

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

March 4, 2015 at 8:16 PM

SHOOTING ICE

with 2 comments

ice3

Ice is hard. Resistant. Stubborn. Ice can withstand any single human effort to break through…especially if ice has transformed concrete steps into a glistening, smooth, intransient obstacle that should be left alone. There is no point in trying to break it down (as I did) to get a better foothold – to get a better angle on the object you’re trying to photograph.

Such foolishness can possibly lead to disaster. I sometimes hurry to get things done – and in my unfocussed haste – misjudge and make mistakes that do not end well. I am a victim of my own stupidity.

There is a millisecond between attempt and failure when you are completely unaware of what you’ve just done. In that microscopic moment between slipping and landing you see nothing. The world around you becomes blank. First it’s simply, “Here I am trying to break through the ice with my foot. Here I am on my back lying on the ice. How did that happen?” Your next thought is, “Where’s my brand new expensive camera? Did I land on it? NO! Here it is secure in my hand that’s extended above my prone body. AT LEAST I WAS CONCIOUS ENOUGH TO SACRIFICE MY BODY TO PROTECT IT!” Then it’s, “Why can’t I get up?”

Because you’re lying at the bottom of uneven ice-coated steps, stupid!

Thankfully there are no witnesses to my next ridiculous act. Camera held high, I rolled over, grabbed the ice-coated railing with my free hand and painfully pulled myself to a more secure level. It took a while. Ice does not give up its victims without making them struggle. Eventually I made it. Looking down at the frozen steps I just scaled I chastised myself for being so reckless. And stupid.

When we take chances success is usually 50-50. Clearly this was a chance I shouldn’t have taken. Any go or no-go decision is often quick and thoughtless. Spur of the moment as they say. It is always difficult to judge the wisdom of one’s next move until after you’ve made it.

Life, the pundits say, is about taking chances. “Find a Way or Make One. Just Do It. Who Dares Wins. Deeds Not Words.” Pick any current phrase that suits you. Sometimes the taking works – sometimes it doesn’t. This time for me, it didn’t. That’s just the way it is.

I didn’t get that just-right angle for the shot I was looking for. But, I hurt too much to be disappointed.

Ice1

MEA CULPA

with one comment

I have not paid too much attention to this Blog since well before January. Not because I haven’t had anything to say (which is partly true). But blogging, to me, becomes a tad boring (for the writer) if the writer isn’t following a personal message or cause or theme. And I, for one, don’t believe in listing or recounting all that happens to me on a regular basis.

brdfest2What I have been doing on a fairly regular basis, though, is posting a blog for the Huron Fringe Birding Festival (http://huronfringefest.wordpress.com). Not because I am birder but because I’m married to one and she is on the Festival Committee and I let myself be talked into becoming their ‘Blog Master’ as they have titled me.

Birders are interesting people, if not a touch obsessed. Actually a lot of them have become good friends. Their varied backgrounds and varied interests make for good conversation and good laughs. The Festival is over now so more time will be spent literally rambling on metropolitanhomesickblues.

So what has been happening over the many months? Sadly our cat of 19 years has left us. 

Image 1

Miss Molly was a clawless, long hair “tort” as they say, a rescue cat my wife brought home one day. She does that sort of thing with animals. Molly and I were buddies. When she wasn’t sleeping she was wherever I was, even in the middle of the night. When she walked into a room she walked to me and demanded (in the voice of her people) that I pick her up to carry her on my shoulder or place her beside me in whatever chair I was sitting in…room for her or not.

When she had had enough of her lazy life, Molly told us. She went quietly. She is well remembered.

A short piece of the Bruce Trail became my responsibility over that period.

Image

I am Trail Captain for a length that runs above the Slough of Despond towards Skinner’s Bluff. Its up on the North Bruce Peninsula and it’s a lovely hike. My duties are to inspect the trail at least three times a year and keep it clear and walkable as it varies from gentle to rocky to wet in the spring. Rest assured there will be words and pictures coming your way as summer unfolds.

Of course, who can forget the now legendary Winter of 2014.

Image 2 

I can’t remember when it started, but it felt like it lasted forever. The Great Lakes were frozen over. The ice never left Lake Huron until mid May. Blizzards, road and town closures, endless driveway snow blowing, shovels and roof rakes were the norm.

boulder

 All of that is past us now. Just had to get it all out of my mind on to the page as an excuse to write this blog.

SPRING DAY SUN

with 4 comments

Stone

Sun shadows fall on the diminished snow and wind wicks away whatever white grains remain as the contradiction of sun and cold conspire to sacrifice only the surface, revealing nothing but more of the same. Winter is not yet done with us. 

snow rise2

Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

March 22, 2014 at 2:56 PM