Tuesday, 23 September 2008
A Not Very Good Day
It has not been a good day.
It started out fine. Sarah and I took the dogs for a walk in the woods and I photographed a faerie in a tree and a magical rock. But from there on things went downhill quickly.
First the dryer repairman arrived and said the problem was either something clogging the motor or the motor had died and I would have to be very unlucky for the second to have occurred. Most dryer motors last a lifetime. I'd had the dryer for less that 18 months and I'd used it for about 50 hours in that time because I prefer to dry things on the line.
Well ... turns out I am very unlucky. That bill was $387.00.
Then when he left, I heard Kenya yelping from up the mountain behind my place. My first thought was an illegal trap. I went straight up and discovered that she had cornered a porcupine.
I did everything possible to get her away short of throwing myself on top of the porcupine who was spinning in circles trying to keep his tail toward the enemy.
I went down and came back up, panting and sweating, with a Dentibone and the leash. She refused to be distracted.
I tried poking her with a stick and ordering her home. No luck.
I went back down and thawed some beef and brought it up the hill. Better diarrhea than more quills. By the time I got to the top of our own hill she was coming toward me, her face a mess of quills, and I didn't need to bribe her to come to me.
I put her in the car and drove to Sarah's thinking two of us might be able to get the quills out. But after the first couple she shied away every time. Her tongue was bleeding from one stuck in there ... likely one she'd attempted to remove herself.
I called the vet.
They gave her a shot and checked her heart and I put her in a crate where she cried piteously.
Then they gave me the estimate ... and I felt like crying piteously too.
$313.79.
Today an inanimate object with flaws likely made on a Friday afternoon near quitting time and a stupid stupid dog managed to cost me a total of $700 and change.
I feel a bit like Joe BL#$%^&, the little guy who went around under a rain cloud all the time.
It started out fine. Sarah and I took the dogs for a walk in the woods and I photographed a faerie in a tree and a magical rock. But from there on things went downhill quickly.
First the dryer repairman arrived and said the problem was either something clogging the motor or the motor had died and I would have to be very unlucky for the second to have occurred. Most dryer motors last a lifetime. I'd had the dryer for less that 18 months and I'd used it for about 50 hours in that time because I prefer to dry things on the line.
Well ... turns out I am very unlucky. That bill was $387.00.
Then when he left, I heard Kenya yelping from up the mountain behind my place. My first thought was an illegal trap. I went straight up and discovered that she had cornered a porcupine.
I did everything possible to get her away short of throwing myself on top of the porcupine who was spinning in circles trying to keep his tail toward the enemy.
I went down and came back up, panting and sweating, with a Dentibone and the leash. She refused to be distracted.
I tried poking her with a stick and ordering her home. No luck.
I went back down and thawed some beef and brought it up the hill. Better diarrhea than more quills. By the time I got to the top of our own hill she was coming toward me, her face a mess of quills, and I didn't need to bribe her to come to me.
I put her in the car and drove to Sarah's thinking two of us might be able to get the quills out. But after the first couple she shied away every time. Her tongue was bleeding from one stuck in there ... likely one she'd attempted to remove herself.
I called the vet.
They gave her a shot and checked her heart and I put her in a crate where she cried piteously.
Then they gave me the estimate ... and I felt like crying piteously too.
$313.79.
Today an inanimate object with flaws likely made on a Friday afternoon near quitting time and a stupid stupid dog managed to cost me a total of $700 and change.
I feel a bit like Joe BL#$%^&, the little guy who went around under a rain cloud all the time.
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Fall Outings
I feel renewed by the outdoors and yet I find it all too easy to stay inside. Kenya is a blessing in that regard.
Yesterday I drove to Wakefield for supplies and returned via River Road. We wandered along drawn to the purple masses of wild asters and the wild apples. Then the pine cones on the road demanded harvesting.
On the way back we walked down along the river with Kenya wading as I walked the shore.
We picked some apples for our pork tenderloin dinner and headed home.
Pat, Julie, Musasha and Siia came for dinner bringing books I had stored with Pat many years ago, a case of wine, a pear clafouti and Mauie, the most annoying card game imaginable.
It is, like the game devised by the rebel in A Separate Peace, a rule-driven game. The problem is that the rules are too numerous and complex for any newbie to manage, and they keep changing. Apparently US customs agents were introduced to this game in order to make them more sensitive to the problems faced by newcomers to the country. I wonder why Pat brought it to me? Perhaps as a kind of mental yoga to stretch the mind?
This morning Kenya lured me down to the deck with the Saturday editions of The Citizen and The Globe ... and my big mug of tea. It was glorious there in the hot sun, lounging, sipping, reading, tossing sticks and avoiding the cold water sprays when Kenya's shaking was too close for comfort.
Maybe that's it. Maybe you only get wakened up out of the comfortable stupor of daily life when you are shocked by a bracing dash of cold water or the discomfort of pushing yourself physically or mentally further than you initially want to go. Maybe we all need the surprise of discovering something we didn't expect. Maybe everyone can benefit from the occasional dose of Mauie or Kenya.
Yesterday I drove to Wakefield for supplies and returned via River Road. We wandered along drawn to the purple masses of wild asters and the wild apples. Then the pine cones on the road demanded harvesting.
On the way back we walked down along the river with Kenya wading as I walked the shore.
We picked some apples for our pork tenderloin dinner and headed home.
Pat, Julie, Musasha and Siia came for dinner bringing books I had stored with Pat many years ago, a case of wine, a pear clafouti and Mauie, the most annoying card game imaginable.
It is, like the game devised by the rebel in A Separate Peace, a rule-driven game. The problem is that the rules are too numerous and complex for any newbie to manage, and they keep changing. Apparently US customs agents were introduced to this game in order to make them more sensitive to the problems faced by newcomers to the country. I wonder why Pat brought it to me? Perhaps as a kind of mental yoga to stretch the mind?
This morning Kenya lured me down to the deck with the Saturday editions of The Citizen and The Globe ... and my big mug of tea. It was glorious there in the hot sun, lounging, sipping, reading, tossing sticks and avoiding the cold water sprays when Kenya's shaking was too close for comfort.
Maybe that's it. Maybe you only get wakened up out of the comfortable stupor of daily life when you are shocked by a bracing dash of cold water or the discomfort of pushing yourself physically or mentally further than you initially want to go. Maybe we all need the surprise of discovering something we didn't expect. Maybe everyone can benefit from the occasional dose of Mauie or Kenya.
Saturday, 20 September 2008
Burrs are not funny
Burrs are not funny ...
OW thought it would be a cute joke to leave a giant burdock looming in the side yard. Kenya was continually getting the green burrs in her feathers (yes, dogs have feathers ... lovely long silky ones in Kenya's case.)
I asked him to help me get rid of it when he came over. He chopped it down and then flung it down a steep slope into the wooded area. I said it would be better to bag it so it wouldn't spread ... his response ... "I don't bag" ...
A few minutes later, Kenya discovered a little orange cat and treed it. Of course she chased it right through the burr bush.
Last night I looked at the mess and contemplated the idea of cutting out the tangles but I really did not want to do that to her, so I spent a couple of hours combing out her tail. It must have been painful but she was very patient. This morning I did the feathers on her legs. All the hair that is normally long and sleek had become matted and kinky as it curled around and into the dry brown burrs.
Kenya is back outside again. I hope I can manage to get the burdock under wraps before she finds it again. And I have thousands of tiny seeds to sweep up everywhere she has walked indoors. Next year I will like have a bumper crop of burdock!
OW thought it would be a cute joke to leave a giant burdock looming in the side yard. Kenya was continually getting the green burrs in her feathers (yes, dogs have feathers ... lovely long silky ones in Kenya's case.)
I asked him to help me get rid of it when he came over. He chopped it down and then flung it down a steep slope into the wooded area. I said it would be better to bag it so it wouldn't spread ... his response ... "I don't bag" ...
A few minutes later, Kenya discovered a little orange cat and treed it. Of course she chased it right through the burr bush.
Last night I looked at the mess and contemplated the idea of cutting out the tangles but I really did not want to do that to her, so I spent a couple of hours combing out her tail. It must have been painful but she was very patient. This morning I did the feathers on her legs. All the hair that is normally long and sleek had become matted and kinky as it curled around and into the dry brown burrs.
Kenya is back outside again. I hope I can manage to get the burdock under wraps before she finds it again. And I have thousands of tiny seeds to sweep up everywhere she has walked indoors. Next year I will like have a bumper crop of burdock!
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Good Morning
I love waking up to a sun-shiny morning when the air is moist and cool and the wind blows long trails of lace past my place to the secluded rocky eastern end of the lake. Here, about two thirds of the way, I watch its progress until the sun burns it off and a new day begins.
This is when I drink my tea, read emails, and wake up. Kenya lies in the sun for a while until she decides it is time to come in for her Dentibone, a big drink of water, and breakfast. Yes, in that order. I know! I should have the tooth brushing done last thing before bedtime, not first thing in the morning, but bad habits are hard to break.
They are predicting rain but I am going to fly in the face of good sense and hang out a load of laundry ... and maybe go out in the kayak with Kenya before the weather proves the forecaster right and me too hopeful.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
Finding Myself on an Unknown Trail
Yesterday I wrote the first of my Dear Miriam letters ... at least I hope it is just the first as we build our new-old friendship through letters, emails and visits.
Then I got up the courage to look at the 2005 tax stuff to see if I really owed the government money from that year. I didn't. They are wrong. There is no previous balance! Why do I always assume the worst? Why do I always expect I must be in the wrong?
Sarah called and we headed out for a 2 ½ hour hike.
We climbed a very steep hill to reach a wonderful spot where soft moss carpets big rocky places where you can rest and just enjoy the view and the freshness of the autumn air. The dogs, exhausted from chasing one another and intriguing smells through the woods, flopped down to rest.
We scrambled down hills, one so steep that someone long ago had set up a rope to hang onto. It went from tree to tree, but one of its anchors had since rotted and fallen, leaving the rope slack. I felt remarkably healthy as I scrambled about in the thick undergrowth. This is not a groomed trail, and the orange marker ribbons that the long ago person put up are often hard to find or have fallen off. Sarah said some people pay big bucks to have this kind of adventure, and here it is, right on our door step.
Trees have fallen across the ancient path and you often have to detour around, or crawl over or under them.
The dogs found a beautiful bog which looked like a pool until they waded around in its sludge and we were assaulted by the distinctive smell of sulphur dioxide. We expected the dogs to reek of rotten eggs, but, by the time we got home they smelled just like themselves again.
It was like being in another world out there, one untouched by human beings, except where they left helpful hints for the next people to find the trail. I prefer that kind of hiking to following more traveled trails. Is it something like the road less traveled, I wonder?
Then I got up the courage to look at the 2005 tax stuff to see if I really owed the government money from that year. I didn't. They are wrong. There is no previous balance! Why do I always assume the worst? Why do I always expect I must be in the wrong?
Sarah called and we headed out for a 2 ½ hour hike.
We climbed a very steep hill to reach a wonderful spot where soft moss carpets big rocky places where you can rest and just enjoy the view and the freshness of the autumn air. The dogs, exhausted from chasing one another and intriguing smells through the woods, flopped down to rest.
We scrambled down hills, one so steep that someone long ago had set up a rope to hang onto. It went from tree to tree, but one of its anchors had since rotted and fallen, leaving the rope slack. I felt remarkably healthy as I scrambled about in the thick undergrowth. This is not a groomed trail, and the orange marker ribbons that the long ago person put up are often hard to find or have fallen off. Sarah said some people pay big bucks to have this kind of adventure, and here it is, right on our door step.
Trees have fallen across the ancient path and you often have to detour around, or crawl over or under them.
The dogs found a beautiful bog which looked like a pool until they waded around in its sludge and we were assaulted by the distinctive smell of sulphur dioxide. We expected the dogs to reek of rotten eggs, but, by the time we got home they smelled just like themselves again.
It was like being in another world out there, one untouched by human beings, except where they left helpful hints for the next people to find the trail. I prefer that kind of hiking to following more traveled trails. Is it something like the road less traveled, I wonder?
Seven Things I Learned as a Nomad
I learned some philosophical truths and important lessons about relationships of all kinds as I lived my nomadic summer, but I also learned seven very simple truths about more practical things.
1. I learned how to knit the Russian way which is also the European way ... but I still do it the Canadian way despite the fact that it is far less efficient and much slower. Ingrained habits are hard to change. But I am back knitting again after what feels like a century, so it was helpful to learn to knit like a Russian.
2. I learned how to felt, and so I am going to start using all the woollen sweaters I bought at Frenchies and other secondhand stores to felt tea cozies. Felting is fun, but these first tea cozies, like the first sweater I am knitting, are going to be worth a fortune because of the cost of setting up a new hobby.
3. I discovered Frenchies. Wow! It would be worth an air ticket to Nova Scotia just to tour the Frenchies outlets. Way better quality and price than Value Village or even the Sally Ann.
4. I learned that young women are all shaving entirely now. I am not sure I wanted to learn that, but one of the young women I know is extremely forthright. I thought it was to please the men, but I was told it was all about cleanliness. I am glad I am no longer a young woman. I like my natural fluffiness.
5. I learned that canoeing is much easier if both paddlers know what they are doing and can trust one another, and if they are not contending with a bratty thirteen year old whose mission is to embarrass her mother. I am glad my children are no longer thirteen.
6. I discovered Nova Scotian wine. The liquor outlet in Wolfville is barely stocked, and few bargains can be found, but there are wineries in the Valley, and one sells very good red and white wines. There are also no bargains to be found there, though!
7. I discovered that my son is a very good cook. He has an intuitive sense of how to put together different ingredients and flavours to bring out the best in them ... and everything he cooks is healthy simple food. I decided to get back to another old project of mine: collecting recipes made by peasants.
1. I learned how to knit the Russian way which is also the European way ... but I still do it the Canadian way despite the fact that it is far less efficient and much slower. Ingrained habits are hard to change. But I am back knitting again after what feels like a century, so it was helpful to learn to knit like a Russian.
2. I learned how to felt, and so I am going to start using all the woollen sweaters I bought at Frenchies and other secondhand stores to felt tea cozies. Felting is fun, but these first tea cozies, like the first sweater I am knitting, are going to be worth a fortune because of the cost of setting up a new hobby.
3. I discovered Frenchies. Wow! It would be worth an air ticket to Nova Scotia just to tour the Frenchies outlets. Way better quality and price than Value Village or even the Sally Ann.
4. I learned that young women are all shaving entirely now. I am not sure I wanted to learn that, but one of the young women I know is extremely forthright. I thought it was to please the men, but I was told it was all about cleanliness. I am glad I am no longer a young woman. I like my natural fluffiness.
5. I learned that canoeing is much easier if both paddlers know what they are doing and can trust one another, and if they are not contending with a bratty thirteen year old whose mission is to embarrass her mother. I am glad my children are no longer thirteen.
6. I discovered Nova Scotian wine. The liquor outlet in Wolfville is barely stocked, and few bargains can be found, but there are wineries in the Valley, and one sells very good red and white wines. There are also no bargains to be found there, though!
7. I discovered that my son is a very good cook. He has an intuitive sense of how to put together different ingredients and flavours to bring out the best in them ... and everything he cooks is healthy simple food. I decided to get back to another old project of mine: collecting recipes made by peasants.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Monday, 15 September 2008
Monday Morning
Just a Morning Write
I have to work on my den on this dull dull morning ... and I have to mail the first payment to Revenue Canada.
We have just come through a blustery night that sent Kenya from my bedroom to her crate where she feels most secure ... sort of like a bomb shelter, I think. For some reason she is far more insecure here when the weather is miserable than she was before we left. Maybe she is expecting this to become just another stopping place where all her senses have to be on guard all the time.
I am still dealing with being home in an alien place, so I understand.
It doesn't help that I seem to be operating with half my usual number of brain cells. Before Kenya and I headed out for a hike between rain showers I turned on the dishwasher. We came back in drenched and I discovered the puddle of soapy water in front of the dishwasher. I must have used dish detergent instead of the dish washer detergent ...
After I cleaned up the mess I attended to the fire (in the wood stove) and then checked my phone messages. The technician who was supposed to work on my dryer tomorrow suffered an injury and won't be out till next Tuesday. Great. We will likely have rain from now till then so outdoor line drying is not an option. Back to the rack in front of the fire.
I received a series of phone calls that made me cry because they were all from people who wanted to say I really wasn't quite as alone as I thought.
My tear ducts are opening rather more easily than they used to. It seems to be a problem when I feel under the gun ... but as one of the callers said ... "At our age surely we must have figured out that things always do work out, and it is better to concentrate on what you can control than to worry about what you have no power over anyway." Another advised me to stop worrying about worst case scenarios. The third offered to help me figure out part of the morass, and, if necessary, speak on my behalf.
So, through tears, I am lucky to have people who care. I am also lucky to be living in a beautiful place.
I have to work on my den on this dull dull morning ... and I have to mail the first payment to Revenue Canada.
We have just come through a blustery night that sent Kenya from my bedroom to her crate where she feels most secure ... sort of like a bomb shelter, I think. For some reason she is far more insecure here when the weather is miserable than she was before we left. Maybe she is expecting this to become just another stopping place where all her senses have to be on guard all the time.
I am still dealing with being home in an alien place, so I understand.
It doesn't help that I seem to be operating with half my usual number of brain cells. Before Kenya and I headed out for a hike between rain showers I turned on the dishwasher. We came back in drenched and I discovered the puddle of soapy water in front of the dishwasher. I must have used dish detergent instead of the dish washer detergent ...
After I cleaned up the mess I attended to the fire (in the wood stove) and then checked my phone messages. The technician who was supposed to work on my dryer tomorrow suffered an injury and won't be out till next Tuesday. Great. We will likely have rain from now till then so outdoor line drying is not an option. Back to the rack in front of the fire.
I received a series of phone calls that made me cry because they were all from people who wanted to say I really wasn't quite as alone as I thought.
My tear ducts are opening rather more easily than they used to. It seems to be a problem when I feel under the gun ... but as one of the callers said ... "At our age surely we must have figured out that things always do work out, and it is better to concentrate on what you can control than to worry about what you have no power over anyway." Another advised me to stop worrying about worst case scenarios. The third offered to help me figure out part of the morass, and, if necessary, speak on my behalf.
So, through tears, I am lucky to have people who care. I am also lucky to be living in a beautiful place.
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Middle of the Night Despair
September 13, 2008
Blogging at 2:30 a.m.
Why would anyone be up at this hour blogging? Not from choice, I assure you, but what do you do when night sweats wake you up at 1 a.m. ?
My mind takes all my worries and scatters them around inside a maze and then chases each wisp in endless circles.
I got up and made camomile tea. Kenya followed me sleepily from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom to den, and is now curled up on one of her many beds scattered around the house. For the last hour I have been drinking the tea that usually puts me back to sleep while reading email.
A 99 year old woman sent Coffehouse for Writers the following quote: "Writing isn't all that hard. You just sit down at your typewriter and open a vein."
Writing used to be like that for me but lately the vein doesn't bleed, just clots and delivers sludge. I wish I could use writing as an escape from life's messes.
A friend who tried to commit suicide last year said that he only did two things well: he loved well and he produced art. Now that his partner was dead he no longer loved and the sadness prevented him from producing anything at all.
I understand his despair.
Yesterday I spent the entire day avoiding life. After another sleepless night I finally fell asleep at 5:30 a.m. and slept in till 8. Then I got up and made tea which I drank in a leisurely fashion while sitting at the computer. After a shower I made myself and Kenya poached eggs and fielded a couple of phone calls. Then we went out and walked five miles in the rain. Afterwards we were both cold, wet and tired so I made a fire and we zoned out. I watched Smilla's Sense of Snow and The Fugitive, kept the fire going, and ate off and on ... leftovers from yesterday's cooking. I phoned a friend, and then went to bed and read till 9ish. Oh, did I mention that I managed two chores? I did a load of laundry and dried it on a rack in front of the fire and I took the compost out.
Since my return I have learned that a friend is seriously ill, I have managed to get into a financial morass with the tax department, the dryer has conked out, and two of the exterior electrical outlets (including the one for the septic pump) have malfunctioned. And I have had a biopsy done that has caused an infection and resulted in these sleepless nights. I have been home for a mere 11 days. Life was a whole lot simpler when I was a nomad.
Tomorrow I am going to visit a handyman I know to get advice about winterizing the porch, and at noon, the electrician is coming. I intend to spend the rest of the day walking Kenya ... in the rain likely. I hope nothing else engulfs me or breaks down today.
Blogging at 2:30 a.m.
Why would anyone be up at this hour blogging? Not from choice, I assure you, but what do you do when night sweats wake you up at 1 a.m. ?
My mind takes all my worries and scatters them around inside a maze and then chases each wisp in endless circles.
I got up and made camomile tea. Kenya followed me sleepily from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom to den, and is now curled up on one of her many beds scattered around the house. For the last hour I have been drinking the tea that usually puts me back to sleep while reading email.
A 99 year old woman sent Coffehouse for Writers the following quote: "Writing isn't all that hard. You just sit down at your typewriter and open a vein."
Writing used to be like that for me but lately the vein doesn't bleed, just clots and delivers sludge. I wish I could use writing as an escape from life's messes.
A friend who tried to commit suicide last year said that he only did two things well: he loved well and he produced art. Now that his partner was dead he no longer loved and the sadness prevented him from producing anything at all.
I understand his despair.
Yesterday I spent the entire day avoiding life. After another sleepless night I finally fell asleep at 5:30 a.m. and slept in till 8. Then I got up and made tea which I drank in a leisurely fashion while sitting at the computer. After a shower I made myself and Kenya poached eggs and fielded a couple of phone calls. Then we went out and walked five miles in the rain. Afterwards we were both cold, wet and tired so I made a fire and we zoned out. I watched Smilla's Sense of Snow and The Fugitive, kept the fire going, and ate off and on ... leftovers from yesterday's cooking. I phoned a friend, and then went to bed and read till 9ish. Oh, did I mention that I managed two chores? I did a load of laundry and dried it on a rack in front of the fire and I took the compost out.
Since my return I have learned that a friend is seriously ill, I have managed to get into a financial morass with the tax department, the dryer has conked out, and two of the exterior electrical outlets (including the one for the septic pump) have malfunctioned. And I have had a biopsy done that has caused an infection and resulted in these sleepless nights. I have been home for a mere 11 days. Life was a whole lot simpler when I was a nomad.
Tomorrow I am going to visit a handyman I know to get advice about winterizing the porch, and at noon, the electrician is coming. I intend to spend the rest of the day walking Kenya ... in the rain likely. I hope nothing else engulfs me or breaks down today.
Friday, 12 September 2008
A Sense of Place ...
I realized this summer that much of my happiness is derived from my sense of place. That is not to dismiss or denigrate the importance of the people I spent time with. They gave me a sense of belonging to family that I miss now that I am back at the lake living alone with Kenya.
I spent a great deal of time on Atlantic beaches this summer. I love Atlantic beaches. I love the variety. I love the rocks. I love the ruggedness. I felt happy exploring those beaches, but I didn't feel at home on them.
Kerry and I took the children swimming at the old water source for the town of Wolfville. It was just like Pike Lake, small, calm, surrounded by woods, an oasis of peace. There I did feel at home.
When I visited Rob I canoed the Clyde in a fund raiser for cancer, and the river was a lot like Pike Lake too. I felt at home there too.
In the Muskokas the river was a green place where we swam and the dogs played happily chasing sticks. One day we went for a five hour kayak trip, just five women in five kayaks. I felt at peace. It was not Pike Lake but I felt at home there as the forest slipped by and the water flowed past my paddle.
Yesterday I awakened to a beautiful misty morning here at the lake and instead feeling at peace, I felt a sense of dread. I have not been sleeping well since coming home. I lie awake worrying about all the things I fear I may not be able to handle alone.
The lake has made me realize the importance of place; this nomadic summer made me realize the importance of family.
I left here in July knowing that I would never be happy as a nomad. I came home wondering whether I can ever be happy as a hermit again. Quel dilemme!
I spent a great deal of time on Atlantic beaches this summer. I love Atlantic beaches. I love the variety. I love the rocks. I love the ruggedness. I felt happy exploring those beaches, but I didn't feel at home on them.
Kerry and I took the children swimming at the old water source for the town of Wolfville. It was just like Pike Lake, small, calm, surrounded by woods, an oasis of peace. There I did feel at home.
When I visited Rob I canoed the Clyde in a fund raiser for cancer, and the river was a lot like Pike Lake too. I felt at home there too.
In the Muskokas the river was a green place where we swam and the dogs played happily chasing sticks. One day we went for a five hour kayak trip, just five women in five kayaks. I felt at peace. It was not Pike Lake but I felt at home there as the forest slipped by and the water flowed past my paddle.
Yesterday I awakened to a beautiful misty morning here at the lake and instead feeling at peace, I felt a sense of dread. I have not been sleeping well since coming home. I lie awake worrying about all the things I fear I may not be able to handle alone.
The lake has made me realize the importance of place; this nomadic summer made me realize the importance of family.
I left here in July knowing that I would never be happy as a nomad. I came home wondering whether I can ever be happy as a hermit again. Quel dilemme!
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
How toilets tell tales
The second story: about bathroom facilities in Outer Mongolia.
In Ulaan Baatar there are lots of indoor toilets. The ones in public buildings like the schools are unpleasant dirty places but at least they have flush mechanisms, and anyone used to traveling in the developing world gets used to carrying toilet paper, antiseptic hand washing solution and baby wet wipes, so they are not impossible.
Outside the capital the towns tend to be communities of gers (yurts) with very few permanent buildings, and farther still from civilization are the camping places where the nomadic people spend a few months at a time. In the countryside there are very few flush toilets; in fact very few facilities inside buildings of any kind.
When we needed to go, we were told that the best place was behind a bush. After using one of the pit latrines I understood why that was sound advice. The latrine was dirty and fly-ridden, and not very stable. And that was in summer. The very thought of baring my cheeks in winter made me shudder. Mongolia is the coldest place in the world.
I think that the students in one of the schools we visited had likely given up on toilets, indoors and out. I walked out of a classroom, turned a corner and surprised a male high school student pissing in a corner. It explained why there was that pervasive stench of urine everywhere in the building.
I remember my father making judgments about the relative cleanliness of other races. Once, on an international buying trip, he and the other passengers on a grounded flight were assigned rooms and expected to bunk in with total strangers. He said he was greatly relieved to be staying with a white male. There were blacks and Asians on the flight as well. If he had had to choose, he would have chosen the Asian over the black man "because they are cleaner" .
I don't know what he based that prejudice on, but my own experience with people and their washrooms around the world has been quite different.
I don't know if you can generally judge the personal cleanliness of people by the state of their washrooms, but I suspect it might be a start. The washrooms in France and Mongolia were about equally dirty and either would win first prize as the least appealing in my experience.
In one seafood restaurant in Bretagne, the toilet used by customers and staff had no sink ... so how could the cooks and serving people wash their hands before handling food?
In contrast, everywhere I have been in Africa I have seen crude structures but very clean people who bathe far more often than most people I know despite the fact that they have so little water at their disposal.
They insist on hand washing after using the toilet and before eating or handling food, and they use one hand for personal toilet and the other for eating just in case they are unable to find soap and water immediately.
Their children go off to school every morning in spotlessly clean, freshly pressed uniforms, and when they enter the school dining hall a monitor or matron pours water over their hands into a basin as they scrub with soap. Only then can they can get their food and begin eating. The same thing happens in restaurants where the waiters bring the jug, soap and bowl to the tables.
My father didn't get it right. Of course he never traveled in Africa or in the East. But I wonder if he ever stepped outside the prestigious hotels when he stayed in France.
In Ulaan Baatar there are lots of indoor toilets. The ones in public buildings like the schools are unpleasant dirty places but at least they have flush mechanisms, and anyone used to traveling in the developing world gets used to carrying toilet paper, antiseptic hand washing solution and baby wet wipes, so they are not impossible.
Outside the capital the towns tend to be communities of gers (yurts) with very few permanent buildings, and farther still from civilization are the camping places where the nomadic people spend a few months at a time. In the countryside there are very few flush toilets; in fact very few facilities inside buildings of any kind.
When we needed to go, we were told that the best place was behind a bush. After using one of the pit latrines I understood why that was sound advice. The latrine was dirty and fly-ridden, and not very stable. And that was in summer. The very thought of baring my cheeks in winter made me shudder. Mongolia is the coldest place in the world.
I think that the students in one of the schools we visited had likely given up on toilets, indoors and out. I walked out of a classroom, turned a corner and surprised a male high school student pissing in a corner. It explained why there was that pervasive stench of urine everywhere in the building.
I remember my father making judgments about the relative cleanliness of other races. Once, on an international buying trip, he and the other passengers on a grounded flight were assigned rooms and expected to bunk in with total strangers. He said he was greatly relieved to be staying with a white male. There were blacks and Asians on the flight as well. If he had had to choose, he would have chosen the Asian over the black man "because they are cleaner" .
I don't know what he based that prejudice on, but my own experience with people and their washrooms around the world has been quite different.
I don't know if you can generally judge the personal cleanliness of people by the state of their washrooms, but I suspect it might be a start. The washrooms in France and Mongolia were about equally dirty and either would win first prize as the least appealing in my experience.
In one seafood restaurant in Bretagne, the toilet used by customers and staff had no sink ... so how could the cooks and serving people wash their hands before handling food?
In contrast, everywhere I have been in Africa I have seen crude structures but very clean people who bathe far more often than most people I know despite the fact that they have so little water at their disposal.
They insist on hand washing after using the toilet and before eating or handling food, and they use one hand for personal toilet and the other for eating just in case they are unable to find soap and water immediately.
Their children go off to school every morning in spotlessly clean, freshly pressed uniforms, and when they enter the school dining hall a monitor or matron pours water over their hands into a basin as they scrub with soap. Only then can they can get their food and begin eating. The same thing happens in restaurants where the waiters bring the jug, soap and bowl to the tables.
My father didn't get it right. Of course he never traveled in Africa or in the East. But I wonder if he ever stepped outside the prestigious hotels when he stayed in France.
Outhouses Around the World
I didn't receive a single response to my Alice in Wonderland outhouse story ... so I thought perhaps I would tell you an outhouse story from Africa.
In Kenya, there are two kinds of traditional toilets: the long drop and the pit latrine. The long drop requires a very deep hole and is the nicer of the options because the contents are further away from your bottom. The more common pit latrine is really just a ditch covered by a board on which one balances to do what must be done. Flush toilets are rarities and plumbers are unaccustomed to them, so they usually malfunction regularly, making the traditional solutions more palatable in the long run. Unless of course you happen to be old or infirm.
My first story is about the grandfather of one of the employees at ACCES. Anna phoned me to say that she would not be coming to work because her grandfather had fallen into the pit. All morning my mind kept returning to the awful scene. Imagine drowning in feces.
Then, at 11 she called to say she would be in that afternoon.
"What about your grandfather?" I asked.
"He's fine," she replied. "The villagers managed to get him out."
My mind still continues to play with the concept of NOT drowning in feces. Imagine having to help him out. Imagine going under for the third time.
I'd rather play in the imaginary world of Alice ...
In the Mongolian countryside the toilet facilities are even more primitive and less sanitary. I have a story from there too. Let me know if you would like me to tell you that one.
In Kenya, there are two kinds of traditional toilets: the long drop and the pit latrine. The long drop requires a very deep hole and is the nicer of the options because the contents are further away from your bottom. The more common pit latrine is really just a ditch covered by a board on which one balances to do what must be done. Flush toilets are rarities and plumbers are unaccustomed to them, so they usually malfunction regularly, making the traditional solutions more palatable in the long run. Unless of course you happen to be old or infirm.
My first story is about the grandfather of one of the employees at ACCES. Anna phoned me to say that she would not be coming to work because her grandfather had fallen into the pit. All morning my mind kept returning to the awful scene. Imagine drowning in feces.
Then, at 11 she called to say she would be in that afternoon.
"What about your grandfather?" I asked.
"He's fine," she replied. "The villagers managed to get him out."
My mind still continues to play with the concept of NOT drowning in feces. Imagine having to help him out. Imagine going under for the third time.
I'd rather play in the imaginary world of Alice ...
In the Mongolian countryside the toilet facilities are even more primitive and less sanitary. I have a story from there too. Let me know if you would like me to tell you that one.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
This is Alice: the text
Alice is an outhouse. When my friends build their house it will have a lot to live up to. Right now they stay in an old trailer, and a tent houses guests like Kenya and me.
Alice was designed and decorated by an artist and built by a craftsman. Everything pertaining to Alice is beautiful and almost everything was created lovingly by my friend, the artist, and her husband, the craftsman.
One arrives at Alice by following the ferny path with tree roots underfoot by the sign. At night it is best to use one of the lanterns provided. One hangs near the wind chimes across from the sign. Another is just inside the door by one of the stained glass windows.
Inside are mementos of the original Alice, the namesake of this perfect little gem near the Muskoka River.
Every detail has been created with loving care. Seated, you can see a tiny doorway at mouse-eye level level that leads somewhere unknown. Another mouse perches on a pile of books, and the walls are hung with pictures of various scenes in Wonderland, and a poem written and illustrated by L after she read the book the first time. A collection of tea pots sits on a high shelf. Two stained glass windows face one another and high, high above, light filters in through clear triangles. The reading material is all inspired by Carroll's book, and extra toilet paper sits in a wooden holder decorated with more Alice-inspired decoupage.
After spending a week near Alice, I will never think of outhouses in quite the same way again.
Alice was designed and decorated by an artist and built by a craftsman. Everything pertaining to Alice is beautiful and almost everything was created lovingly by my friend, the artist, and her husband, the craftsman.
One arrives at Alice by following the ferny path with tree roots underfoot by the sign. At night it is best to use one of the lanterns provided. One hangs near the wind chimes across from the sign. Another is just inside the door by one of the stained glass windows.
Inside are mementos of the original Alice, the namesake of this perfect little gem near the Muskoka River.
Every detail has been created with loving care. Seated, you can see a tiny doorway at mouse-eye level level that leads somewhere unknown. Another mouse perches on a pile of books, and the walls are hung with pictures of various scenes in Wonderland, and a poem written and illustrated by L after she read the book the first time. A collection of tea pots sits on a high shelf. Two stained glass windows face one another and high, high above, light filters in through clear triangles. The reading material is all inspired by Carroll's book, and extra toilet paper sits in a wooden holder decorated with more Alice-inspired decoupage.
After spending a week near Alice, I will never think of outhouses in quite the same way again.
Sunday, 7 September 2008
Feeling Small
I had an experience recently that made me feel very small. It had been a long time since anyone made me feel that way, and I didn't like it at all.
I thought about the times I have made other people feel diminished and wish I could erase them. I know I made my older children feel that way when I noticed their mistakes instead of focusing on their achievements. I think I wanted them to be like well-trained dogs who never embarrassed me in public. I don't think I did that as often to my younger children and I know I didn't do it with my students.
How was I made to feel small? I wasn't allowed to help. I couldn't cook or wash dishes or help clean up. I felt as if I would be in the way. As a result I felt at first like a princess being waited upon and then like a huge burden. I began to question everything about my competency.
It didn't help that Kenya was in unfamiliar situations all summer and everything she has been encouraged to do to make our lives easier here on the lake didn't fit in, so by the time I got to this situation, I already felt as if my competency as a dog owner was in question. The dogs at this particular place were all city dogs trained to obey instantly. And the ones who hadn't completely got the message were disciplined so often it was annoying.
Dogs were never allowed to figure out their pack order. A human always intervened, whether it was necessary or not. I know there are situations in which humans must intervene because the dogs are not capable of recognizing some things. Rob's ancient and infirm dogs, for example, needed protection from Kenya's exuberance and loud voiced bossiness. Poor Chloe fell right over one time when Kenya yelled at her for eating her food. But these dogs were all young and healthy and quite capable of establishing rank order without interference. None of them, including Kenya, were vicious dogs who might inflict injury.
I value the fact that Kenya can think independently because that is what works best for her in our hermitage. I want a dog that barks when there are intruders of either the two- or four-legged variety. Once I assure her that she needn't worry about it, she usually stops barking.
It is important when you live on a lake that your dog think for herself and deal with new situations by considering things and then acting intelligently. A dog which responded to commands unquestioningly would be less likely to be able to figure out what to do when the ice was breaking up or when she was out of my sight. A dog that is totally dependent on people would not be much help in looking after other dogs either. I want a dog that can think for herself, but such a dog is not always obedient.
And in Kenya's case, because we look after other dogs, she is also very bossy. It is all sound and fury but such bitchiness can be misinterpreted.
I have never been able to train Kenya to come the instant she is called, and I doubt if anyone could without breaking her spirit. Here at the lake, she comes when I want her to, she always shows me where she and the other dogs are when I ask her to, and she stays on our property and keeps the other dogs with her.
But here at the lake she doesn't have to deal with busy streets or people and dogs passing by the house every few minutes. And she never has to protect her food bowl from the ravenous appetites of Labs.
I think this trip must have been really hard on Kenya, even though she was a great traveler who patiently endured hours and hours of driving. I think she likely felt small too because she was getting into trouble for things that had been accepted or encouraged all her life; because I couldn't allow her to use her strengths; and because she went from being a partner to being a burden who could embarrass me in front of strangers.
I thought about the times I have made other people feel diminished and wish I could erase them. I know I made my older children feel that way when I noticed their mistakes instead of focusing on their achievements. I think I wanted them to be like well-trained dogs who never embarrassed me in public. I don't think I did that as often to my younger children and I know I didn't do it with my students.
How was I made to feel small? I wasn't allowed to help. I couldn't cook or wash dishes or help clean up. I felt as if I would be in the way. As a result I felt at first like a princess being waited upon and then like a huge burden. I began to question everything about my competency.
It didn't help that Kenya was in unfamiliar situations all summer and everything she has been encouraged to do to make our lives easier here on the lake didn't fit in, so by the time I got to this situation, I already felt as if my competency as a dog owner was in question. The dogs at this particular place were all city dogs trained to obey instantly. And the ones who hadn't completely got the message were disciplined so often it was annoying.
Dogs were never allowed to figure out their pack order. A human always intervened, whether it was necessary or not. I know there are situations in which humans must intervene because the dogs are not capable of recognizing some things. Rob's ancient and infirm dogs, for example, needed protection from Kenya's exuberance and loud voiced bossiness. Poor Chloe fell right over one time when Kenya yelled at her for eating her food. But these dogs were all young and healthy and quite capable of establishing rank order without interference. None of them, including Kenya, were vicious dogs who might inflict injury.
I value the fact that Kenya can think independently because that is what works best for her in our hermitage. I want a dog that barks when there are intruders of either the two- or four-legged variety. Once I assure her that she needn't worry about it, she usually stops barking.
It is important when you live on a lake that your dog think for herself and deal with new situations by considering things and then acting intelligently. A dog which responded to commands unquestioningly would be less likely to be able to figure out what to do when the ice was breaking up or when she was out of my sight. A dog that is totally dependent on people would not be much help in looking after other dogs either. I want a dog that can think for herself, but such a dog is not always obedient.
And in Kenya's case, because we look after other dogs, she is also very bossy. It is all sound and fury but such bitchiness can be misinterpreted.
I have never been able to train Kenya to come the instant she is called, and I doubt if anyone could without breaking her spirit. Here at the lake, she comes when I want her to, she always shows me where she and the other dogs are when I ask her to, and she stays on our property and keeps the other dogs with her.
But here at the lake she doesn't have to deal with busy streets or people and dogs passing by the house every few minutes. And she never has to protect her food bowl from the ravenous appetites of Labs.
I think this trip must have been really hard on Kenya, even though she was a great traveler who patiently endured hours and hours of driving. I think she likely felt small too because she was getting into trouble for things that had been accepted or encouraged all her life; because I couldn't allow her to use her strengths; and because she went from being a partner to being a burden who could embarrass me in front of strangers.
Saturday, 6 September 2008
Back to Reality
I am beginning to settle in.
At first everything felt alien and I dashed from one job to another in the manner of hummingbirds or dragonflies, but faster, more erratically, like the skittering water bugs Kenya loves so much. Everything I touched led to another detour, another convoluted path. No task was simple. I had to perform three others before I could attack that one. I felt a bit like my granddaughter who informed me as she tidied her room that she needed me to stay with her " because I always became distracted, Oma."
Part of the problem was that it was hot and sunny and I didn't want to waste swimming and kayaking weather, but I was also being driven by the knowledge that winter was coming and I had to get the porch weatherproofed and ready to receive my supply of wood. I had to arrange with the plumber and electrician to install the boiler and set up the generator. I was also worried about the piled-up bills I needed to figure out and pay. I also had to stock up on food, make wine and go to a medical appointment at the Riverside.
Thursday night Kenya was driven by anxiety attacks that sent her onto my bed, and off again, and took her downstairs and outdoors. When I finally figured out that her craziness was caused by the wind and closed all the windows, she settled down and went to sleep for the night. It took me a little longer to get back to sleep.
When you consider the places I have spent all my nights for two months and compare them to my own supremely comfortable bed here at the lake, it is surprising that I have been more prone to insomnia here than anywhere else. I have slept in motel rooms, guest rooms, on an eight year old's bed, on a sponge on the floor, and in a tent. In many of the places I had to adjust to foreign noises like traffic or aircraft or ATVs, and, in one, the screeches of raccoons making lusty love or war a few feet from my bed. And yet, everywhere, I slept the sleep of the innocent.
On the one hand I feel more peaceful and at home here than anywhere I have been this summer, but everywhere I stayed I was part of a family unit and could relax my guard at night, safe in the knowledge that I was not alone. Perhaps, too, I was comforted by the knowledge that my life and its responsibilities were on hold until I returned home; that there was no point in worrying about such things as preparing for winter or fussing about financial concerns beyond my control, so I could push them aside.
I have also been doing a lot of thinking about my close neighbour who has been diagnosed with cancer and is very ill. Her first surgery was unsuccessful and she faces a battle with chemo and radiation before they will try again.
In fact I have been more concerned about her health than about my own. I had a biopsy done yesterday. It was a painful procedure, and not pleasant, but, despite the serious manner of the specialist, not fear inspiring. I seem to live in a kind of bubble regarding cancer. I think I am so sure I will be killed by heart attack or stroke like everyone on my mother's side, or by something going wrong with my digestive system like my father and my oma, that I can't even imagine that it will be cancer that gets me.
And besides, I am not afraid of dying. For a very long time I have contemplated the inevitable with equanimity. Of course it has always been in the abstract. I am not so sure that I would cope as well with the information that I had a cancer that required months of chemo and radiation; and that my chances of survival were only 30% if I subjected myself to the pain, weakness and nausea associated with the treatment. I can't even imagine facing all of that alone up here in the woods living my hermit's life with my dog.
At any rate, I am now back in the real world. My nomadic summer is behind me and my life at the hermitage resumes.
I need to settle in a bit more before I can write about my long vacation from life. I put 6000 kilometres on my little old car, and subjected Kenya to more experiences than she was comfortable coping with, but I discovered things I would never have learned staying here at the lake where we are both comfortable.
At first everything felt alien and I dashed from one job to another in the manner of hummingbirds or dragonflies, but faster, more erratically, like the skittering water bugs Kenya loves so much. Everything I touched led to another detour, another convoluted path. No task was simple. I had to perform three others before I could attack that one. I felt a bit like my granddaughter who informed me as she tidied her room that she needed me to stay with her " because I always became distracted, Oma."
Part of the problem was that it was hot and sunny and I didn't want to waste swimming and kayaking weather, but I was also being driven by the knowledge that winter was coming and I had to get the porch weatherproofed and ready to receive my supply of wood. I had to arrange with the plumber and electrician to install the boiler and set up the generator. I was also worried about the piled-up bills I needed to figure out and pay. I also had to stock up on food, make wine and go to a medical appointment at the Riverside.
Thursday night Kenya was driven by anxiety attacks that sent her onto my bed, and off again, and took her downstairs and outdoors. When I finally figured out that her craziness was caused by the wind and closed all the windows, she settled down and went to sleep for the night. It took me a little longer to get back to sleep.
When you consider the places I have spent all my nights for two months and compare them to my own supremely comfortable bed here at the lake, it is surprising that I have been more prone to insomnia here than anywhere else. I have slept in motel rooms, guest rooms, on an eight year old's bed, on a sponge on the floor, and in a tent. In many of the places I had to adjust to foreign noises like traffic or aircraft or ATVs, and, in one, the screeches of raccoons making lusty love or war a few feet from my bed. And yet, everywhere, I slept the sleep of the innocent.
On the one hand I feel more peaceful and at home here than anywhere I have been this summer, but everywhere I stayed I was part of a family unit and could relax my guard at night, safe in the knowledge that I was not alone. Perhaps, too, I was comforted by the knowledge that my life and its responsibilities were on hold until I returned home; that there was no point in worrying about such things as preparing for winter or fussing about financial concerns beyond my control, so I could push them aside.
I have also been doing a lot of thinking about my close neighbour who has been diagnosed with cancer and is very ill. Her first surgery was unsuccessful and she faces a battle with chemo and radiation before they will try again.
In fact I have been more concerned about her health than about my own. I had a biopsy done yesterday. It was a painful procedure, and not pleasant, but, despite the serious manner of the specialist, not fear inspiring. I seem to live in a kind of bubble regarding cancer. I think I am so sure I will be killed by heart attack or stroke like everyone on my mother's side, or by something going wrong with my digestive system like my father and my oma, that I can't even imagine that it will be cancer that gets me.
And besides, I am not afraid of dying. For a very long time I have contemplated the inevitable with equanimity. Of course it has always been in the abstract. I am not so sure that I would cope as well with the information that I had a cancer that required months of chemo and radiation; and that my chances of survival were only 30% if I subjected myself to the pain, weakness and nausea associated with the treatment. I can't even imagine facing all of that alone up here in the woods living my hermit's life with my dog.
At any rate, I am now back in the real world. My nomadic summer is behind me and my life at the hermitage resumes.
I need to settle in a bit more before I can write about my long vacation from life. I put 6000 kilometres on my little old car, and subjected Kenya to more experiences than she was comfortable coping with, but I discovered things I would never have learned staying here at the lake where we are both comfortable.
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Sorry not to be blogging regularly
Sorry I haven't been as faithful as usual ... but there is one internet connection and 5 people using it ... we picked up the kids from the airport yesterday ... took two cars! This morning Kerry, Max, Arrow and I went swimming before breakfast. We played pirates saving Mommy from the mermaid and capturing the pirate to make him walk the plank ... all done swimming.
Later Kerry and I stayed home with Sam and Tyren while the others went to the Saturday market.
I will post some pictures of Max and Sam later ... they were VERY happy to see one another again. More when I can.
Later Kerry and I stayed home with Sam and Tyren while the others went to the Saturday market.
I will post some pictures of Max and Sam later ... they were VERY happy to see one another again. More when I can.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Chasing History and Hobbit Houses
Kerry and I (and Sam in the car seat) left around ten yesterday morning and had a full day.
First stop was The Tangled Garden ... a wonderful garden fashioned along the same lines as The Secret Garden ... and a combination art studio and store selling homemade jams, jellies, vinegars and cordials ... a prize. I picked up some special savoury jams to serve with meat and fish.
Next was Grand Pré and the Evangeline Centre where Kerry bought Acadian prints and toys and I bought a cook book. I kept looking for Un Acadien Errant on CD but couldn’t find it. It is a song that recurs in The Way the Crow Flies because Mimi is an Acadian.
Back to Wolfville for lunch from the Lunch Box, a vegetarian restaurant on Main Street.
Then on to a museum in Centreville that honours a concrete maker, Charles Macdonald, now dead, who was clearly eccentric, imaginative, inventive and an enterprising socialist. (He and a neighbour held weekly meetings at which luminaries like Tim Buck showed up. They sang communist and socialist songs to the tunes of hymns so no one would suspect!) It turns out that he practised his craft on a series of hobbit houses around Hall’s Harbour ... and once again I found myself remembering that abortive trip to Nova Scotia in 2001. Roy and I had delighted in these hobbit houses when we stumbled upon them. We’d wondered who possessed the imagination to create them. Kerry and I headed out to see them again now that we knew some of the history. We met Fred Macdonald, the creator’s great nephew, who showed us in and around the one he uses as his family cottage. He rents out the one next door ... I am interested ... and so is Kerry. It would be a kind of glorified camping in a unique place. We got his email address and will check out when it is free.
We bought a flat of peewee eggs for $1, some local corn and potatoes, and then drove to Canning for chowder. Enroute we saw a field with three brightly coloured doors opening into it. I didn’t have my camera, dammit.
In Canning we arranged to see a house in Kingsport and, as we were early, went down to check out high tide. It is impressive.
The house was not as impressive. It had good and bad qualities and was shown to us by a man with a very strong local accent and several tics ... most verbal ... which he used as spacers in conversation ... he also spat on the grass every time he made a point ... not one of those awful hawking spits that come from the lungs ... these were clear ... the kind boys practise when they are trying to appear manly. He wasn’t a very good liar because each falsehood or exaggeration was highlighted by one of these mannerisms. Maurice had gone fishing in Kingsport and joined us as we were taking the tour. He described the owner as a living museum piece.
It was a good day, and since we are likely going to be getting a taste of the weather that has flooded the Halifax- Lunenburg area with 100 mm of rain, we picked a good day for our touring.
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Meeting Miriam
Yesterday ...
Yesterday Kerry and I went out in the morning to see an old farmhouse ... it was lovely ... 200 years old ... great lot ... two really nice outbuildings for a playhouse and a workshop-studio ... and a house that had strength of character and a quirky personality ... it gave Kerry the same kind of feeling we both got from the school house ... it had imperfections of course ... everything that ages does ... but it felt like Kerry’s house.
We stopped at the Saturday market on the way home ... ate samosas ... I saw a wonderful felted tea cozy for $65 ... not sure whether I want to spend $65 right now though.
When we got home I curled up and read The Way the Crow Flies for a while and then had a nap with Kenya.
Kerry suggested curried fish for dinner and my stomach involuntarily revolted at the thought of yellow fish. She showed me the recipe and it looked yummy. I did the peas and rice and she prepared the fish. Maurice worked on his taxes.
While the rice was cooking I went out with Sam in the stroller and Kenya on the leash ... and took the upper route because it was less hilly and easier with both of them.
Lo and behold ... Mrs. Langley’s garage door was open! Seated in the entrance were an old lady wearing dark glasses and a younger woman. I called in, “Mrs. Langley. You won’t remember me but I am Barbara Scott from Halifax ... Miriam’s friend.” The younger woman got up and came and gave me a hug. It was Miriam. We hadn’t seen each other in 53 years!
She looked great. Very dark hair with some salt mixed in. Slim. Attractive. Looked to be in her fifties, not her late sixties. She is living in Halifax in an apartment on Spring Garden Road. Was in her sister Diane’s cottage in east Chezzacook but got tired of the wood stove etc. and she doesn’t drive so wanted to be within walking distance of everything. Donna has settled around the corner ... come from St. John’s. Wayne is still in Toronto. Abner died at 77, 22 years ago. We are going to get together again next week. She has company coming to stay with her at the cottage for a week but will be back next Saturday. I am anxious to have a really good chin wag without a baby and a dog ... even though both were well behaved and gave Mrs. Langley something to play with. She is now 97 ... imagine.
I told her how important she had been in my life. Miriam understood, but Mrs. Langley said she couldn’t remember any of that.
I realized later that I have written over and over again about Miriam and her family ... in Explosion of Fire and Ice ... in a short piece on Best Friends ... on my blog the other day ... I would like to share those things with Miriam.
Yesterday Kerry and I went out in the morning to see an old farmhouse ... it was lovely ... 200 years old ... great lot ... two really nice outbuildings for a playhouse and a workshop-studio ... and a house that had strength of character and a quirky personality ... it gave Kerry the same kind of feeling we both got from the school house ... it had imperfections of course ... everything that ages does ... but it felt like Kerry’s house.
We stopped at the Saturday market on the way home ... ate samosas ... I saw a wonderful felted tea cozy for $65 ... not sure whether I want to spend $65 right now though.
When we got home I curled up and read The Way the Crow Flies for a while and then had a nap with Kenya.
Kerry suggested curried fish for dinner and my stomach involuntarily revolted at the thought of yellow fish. She showed me the recipe and it looked yummy. I did the peas and rice and she prepared the fish. Maurice worked on his taxes.
While the rice was cooking I went out with Sam in the stroller and Kenya on the leash ... and took the upper route because it was less hilly and easier with both of them.
Lo and behold ... Mrs. Langley’s garage door was open! Seated in the entrance were an old lady wearing dark glasses and a younger woman. I called in, “Mrs. Langley. You won’t remember me but I am Barbara Scott from Halifax ... Miriam’s friend.” The younger woman got up and came and gave me a hug. It was Miriam. We hadn’t seen each other in 53 years!
She looked great. Very dark hair with some salt mixed in. Slim. Attractive. Looked to be in her fifties, not her late sixties. She is living in Halifax in an apartment on Spring Garden Road. Was in her sister Diane’s cottage in east Chezzacook but got tired of the wood stove etc. and she doesn’t drive so wanted to be within walking distance of everything. Donna has settled around the corner ... come from St. John’s. Wayne is still in Toronto. Abner died at 77, 22 years ago. We are going to get together again next week. She has company coming to stay with her at the cottage for a week but will be back next Saturday. I am anxious to have a really good chin wag without a baby and a dog ... even though both were well behaved and gave Mrs. Langley something to play with. She is now 97 ... imagine.
I told her how important she had been in my life. Miriam understood, but Mrs. Langley said she couldn’t remember any of that.
I realized later that I have written over and over again about Miriam and her family ... in Explosion of Fire and Ice ... in a short piece on Best Friends ... on my blog the other day ... I would like to share those things with Miriam.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Rock Hounds, Clean Hounds, and Happy Hounds
July 15, 2008
Rock hounding at the harbours ...
The morning was pretty laid back ... and stinking hot and humid. After lunch we headed off to cooler climes ... Baxter’s and Hall’s Harbours where we clambered over rocks and seaweed to hunt for rocks. At Hall’s Harbour I suddenly realized I had been there before.
The lobster wharf was where I learned that the planes had crashed into the twin towers. Roy and I were touring Nova Scotia. We had spent the night at a B&B in Wolfville, had eaten breakfast with the rest of the guests and listened to classical music as we ate. No one had turned on any source of news so we were absolutely unaware of what was happening in New York.
When we arrived for lunch at Hall’s Harbour we sat down at one of the trestle tables to wait for our orders. A car pulled up and its occupants made the announcement. Everything changed. Radios were turned on and no one could talk of anything else as the news filtered in. We went back to the B&B and, like everyone else, spent the evening huddled around the tv. Halifax, our next stop, was now out of the question as all the hotels were housing people stranded there. We decided to head home a week early.
Roy changed over the course of the trip into a mini-American waving his stars and stripes and cursing all things Arabic. It took him a couple of months to recall his politics ... but by then I think it was too late for us.
July 16, 2008
Spa Day
I may end up going to a lake this afternoon ... with Margot ... I will see ...
I am not sure I want to take a freshly groomed dog swimming and lose all that expensive scent.
July 17, 2008
I ended up spending yesterday in a very comfortably lazy way. Early in the morning I took Kenya for an hour long walk, then drove her to the groomer. When I got back I got a call from Maurice. He needed his glasses, so I drove to New Minas to deliver them. Then I picked Kenya up at noon. (She smells like a coconut cream pie and is lovely and puppy-fluffy.)
I read for a while and then drove Kerry to an appointment. After wandering around downtown, I finally ended up having fair trade coffee and a samosa in Just Us to wait for her. When we got home I helped Maurice assemble the barbecue, and we made dinner and then went to the reservoir for a swim. It was wonderful, and reminded me of the lake.
I miss Pike Lake. I like it here and appreciate the bounty associated with a much warmer climate, but I miss the fresh coolness of the lake and the Gatineau Hills.
This morning after Kenya’s walk Kerry and I went to the Reservoir for an early morning swim. A lovely way to start the day ... a combination of Pike Lake peace and a view of Blomidon in mist. We didn’t take Kenya. Her coconut smell and air dried fluffiness is like having your own hair styled professionally. Looks great but you don’t want to ruin it all by going swimming. However; I will take her there to chase sticks in the water one day because a truly happy hound tends to smell like lake water and dogginess.
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Monday, 14 July 2008
Eccentricities
Yesterday Kerry, Sam and I went to a painting class in someone’s kitchen ... I liked it but I had trouble moving past my own natural focus on product to the more holistic focus on the creation process. Everyone there was connected in some way with education of children and teens with special needs, and the exercises we were doing were designed to help children read better, focus more completely, slow their breathing, and make them more comfortable in their own skins. It was interesting to be there in someone’s kitchen in 2008 listening to women as concerned, committed and knowledgeable as I had been in 1997.
Afterwards we went to a park where they were fund raising for a dance group that had lost its space in a fire. Also going on were consciousness raising and volunteer seeking for a summer camp for teens and young adults with special needs. People sold food and drinks and musicians entertained. Maurice was one of the musicians. Unfortunately we missed his performance because the art class went overtime. We ate hot dogs and chatted at a picnic table under a tree. Maurice kept Sam with him.
About 2 o’clock Sam arrived at our picnic table in the arms of an ebullient woman called Margot with a “t”. I took a photo and then Sam caught sight of Kerry and set up his raptor cry. It turns out that Margot is a neighbour of Mrs. Langley who was one of the mothers of my childhood days in Halifax. She is now in her nineties but still living in her own home. Kerry and I plan to visit her soon.
I gave Margot a ride home and we made plans to meet for a movie that evening. I planned to walk the dog and have a snooze before we met. She planned to pile firewood and hang bells in her cherry tree to protect the almost ripe fruit from the crows.
At 7:15 Margot arrived with a can of beer to share. We drank it and then walked down to the Acadia Theatre on Main Street. Margot knows everyone and introduced me to several of the raging grannies of Wolfville. I hope to attend one of their meetings before I go home. The movie was a clever bit of romantic fluff ... British ... feel good ... the audience clapped. It was a little like being at the By Towne but even more community oriented. The man who sold tickets and ran out of loonies and toonies was a town councillor. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. More like a house party than a public movie house.
After the movie, we went in to the Irish pub next door where we ate good junk food, had a couple of drinks and listened to a very laidback Celtic jam session.
On the walk home we decided to meet on Tuesday at noon for an aquafit class.
Margot is an explosion of energy and committed to several causes ... the environment especially ... but also HIV-AIDS and AIDS-orphaned children in Africa. She was raised as an army brat, always moving, but never felt as if she were without a home because her parents made her feel absolutely secure and because they knew the importance of maintaining their rootedness in the Annapolis Valley. Her bedroom in every new posting, and even today, houses the furniture she has had since she was three. Her home is the one in which she lived with her parents after their retirement, and later with her invalid mother till she died. Her family goes back many generations here and she is related to half the townspeople.
How very different from my own un-parented and continually uprooted childhood in which the steadiness and calm of Mrs. Langley, the mother of my best friend and the Baptist minister’s wife, was an oasis of sanity. I remember their home as the one place where there was love and order. A place where people lived their lives by strict rules and felt absolutely certain of who they were and how much they were loved ... by their family ... by the community ... by God. I don’t think Miriam ever had a new piece of clothing in the four years she was my best friend, and her make-up consisted of a jar of Vaseline. She had chores every Saturday morning and church all day Sunday. But she was beautiful and content with her life. I envied her the family outings to pier 69 and the community garden, the security of a mother who poached eggs in milk and made bread, but wondered why she didn’t rail against her father’s restrictions. I think I am beginning to understand now.
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Oh My, My, My ...
Such Excitement!
Well! I was taking Kenya out for her last pee of the night and just standing on the front lawn waiting for the act to occur when, out of the night, a small dark coloured car pulled up to the curb and parked with the motor running. One young man got out of the back seat and headed for the apple orchard corner of Skyway and Kent. The other two swarthy young men emerged, their cigarettes glowing red in the dark. Kenya and I stood there, probably invisible, as they settled themselves against the car waiting for their friend. I walked forward with Kenya, out of the shadows, thinking they would say something when they saw me. They ignored us and began speaking to one another in Arabic or some other equally obscure language. Then they sped away.
I told Kerry and Maurice about it and Maurice called the police. Well, he tried to, but none of his house phones worked.
He had told us an hour before that the call Kerry made to Rob had never been terminated. Kerry was sure she had ended the call. Was this all part of something nefarious?
Maurice used his cell phone to call the RCMP. By the time they arrived and I spoke to them, the car had circled the block, driven in to the orchard and backed out with the man on foot following, and headed down Skyway.
Now we had to deal with the downed land line ... was there some kind of connection here? Or were these simply unrelated coincidences?
An unterminated phone call ... a mysterious car ... the failure of a home phone ...
Some might suspect a terrorist attack ... I just thought young thieves ... but maybe it was phone hijackers ... anyway, far more exciting than my usual blog entries!
Tomorrow Kerry and I are going to a water colour class and a music concert where Maurice will be playing and then company is coming ... Not as anxiety ridden but perhaps as exciting as this evening’s almost home invasion!
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Just Thinking ...
This trip is hard for Kenya ... not just the actual trip ... but adjusting to new homes, new families, and new neighbourhoods and their dogs. If we had gone somewhere and rented a place she’d have had one situation to adjust to, or if I had left her at home and traveled alone it might have been easier for her ... but here we are ... and she has to adjust to a baby who travels on all fours and wants the same things she does ... and she already has to give things up to Micah who is the dominant dog ... and then there is the ancient cat, Luna, who fears dogs because she has lived with a mini-Husky pack ... and so she refuses to play with Kenya or give her hell and make it clear that she is not interested in playing. Kenya sometimes has trouble figuring it all out.
Tomorrow we are going to a spa to have her nails clipped ... I wish I could have her bathed as well because she is shedding her undercoat and doesn’t smell wonderful. But apparently groomers are in short supply here so we may have to find an out of town spa for the bath.
We are also going to the Saturday market tomorrow. I am looking forward to that expedition because Kerry has been so enthusiastic about it.
What did we do today? Walked dogs, cleaned, bought a barbecue, went to the Dollar Store, ate a great Vietnamese shrimp and many veggied salad, and that’s about all ... a very domestic day ... and I liked it.
I like Wolfville because it makes geographically good sense to me. (Not many places do.) And I like the disconnect I encountered in the grocery store when I went to buy rice noodles. I hunted and hunted ... no rice noodles. I had almost resigned myself to having to buy those Mr. Noodles packages whose main ingredient is salt, but decided to ask the boy at the cash if he knew where I might find the rice noodles. He was as clueless as I expected him to be but the young woman who was paying her bill told me that they were in the pasta aisle on a very low shelf ... and they were almost always out of stock. I returned the Mr. Noodle packages and hunted again among the shelves of wheat noodles. Finally I spotted two packages of Thai rice noodles on a bottom shelf across the aisle. I grabbed them. If the young woman had been there when I got back I would have shared. She wasn’t, so I hoarded.
Saturday Update
Today we went to the open air market without the dogs ... and had a good time despite the heat and the no-see-ums. It is a vibrant market with music, crafts, good food, and beautiful fresh vegetables and organic meat and poultry products.
Later we took the dogs to the beach at Kingsport where Kenya seemed relaxed for the first time since we left home. It was the first place that was natural. It was a fun time ... slices of pizza, a drink, rock hounding, and ice cream cones.
Next week we will worry about spa time. I could use a good massage too!
News Alert!!
Read tomorrow's blog for really exciting almost home invasion news!Friday, 11 July 2008
Micro Climates, Discount Stores, and Memories of Mothering
This neighbourhood is wonderful to walk in. Even very modest homes are often fronted by luxuriant English country gardens. Roses spill onto the sidewalks. Masses of lavender are juxtaposed against stands of hollyhocks. I have seen very few tough plants like the day lilies or cedar hedges I am used to back home. These hedges are filled right now with sweet smelling blossoms. One house front is almost completely hidden by lilacs that must be wonderful in early June. And there is an absolutely magnificent tree with enormous leaves. It has delicate white orchid-like flowers with purple-etched centres. Clouds of delicate fragrance emanate from it and the blossoms fall with soft plops onto the white carpet below . I come back from my walks with Kenya feeling happy.
Yesterday I went with Kerry and Sam to the massage therapy centre. I looked after Sam while Kerry got a massage. Sam emits a shriek that rivals a raptor’s scream whenever he is unhappy. He was not happy when Kerry disappeared. It was pouring rain and we were in a tiny shopping mall with massage and osteopathic centres, a consignment store, a video rental place and a store that sold stoves and bikes. We visited them all, stopping to play with used toys, read flyers, and see what new movies were available. Sam cried off and on. Finally he began to doze off and I returned to the waiting room. As soon as Sam caught a whiff of the aromatic oils used in the place he remembered that his mother had abandoned him and began to wail again. We made another tour and I picked up a couple of tourist brochures, settled myself down on the floor with my back against the wall and rocked him back to sleep. Eventually my legs, which have been stiff and cranky ever since the drive without cruise control, began to ache. I moved them, one at a time with my free hand, careful not to disturb Sam. The hour was broken up by a vist from a chubby red haired girl who cooed in a most maternal way at Sam and found me another brochure to read, by waves from the owner of the consignment store and the occasional word of greeting or comment on the weather from her customers. Feeling as though my bum were numb I managed to get myself off the floor and into the waiting room without waking Sam, settled myself on the couch and read the Halifax Chronicle Herald. The main feature story on the front page was about an eleven year old boy who won a math competition. I was relieved when Kerry emerged and Sam, instantly awake and wailing, became her charge again.
Then we went to the famous Frenchies. Almost everyone I met before I left told me how lucky I was to be going to Nova Scotia ... because they had Frenchies. So now I was about to experience the joy of second hand shopping raised to a fine art. I got two skirts for under $10. Kerry got lots of stuff for herself and the children. It was fun. Sam played in the bins of clothing and amused the women shoppers by talking to them and grinning happily.
Before coming home we stopped at the liquor store and I had my first taste of Nova Scotia wine. I bought a bottle of Jost’s Prima Rosa and was surprised by how much it tasted like a good Nouveau Beaujolais. After a great Asian pork dinner we settled in to watch Juno. I cried. Memories of being sixteen and pregnant, I guess, though Juno had a lot more attitude than I remember having at that age. It was a good day.
Yesterday I went with Kerry and Sam to the massage therapy centre. I looked after Sam while Kerry got a massage. Sam emits a shriek that rivals a raptor’s scream whenever he is unhappy. He was not happy when Kerry disappeared. It was pouring rain and we were in a tiny shopping mall with massage and osteopathic centres, a consignment store, a video rental place and a store that sold stoves and bikes. We visited them all, stopping to play with used toys, read flyers, and see what new movies were available. Sam cried off and on. Finally he began to doze off and I returned to the waiting room. As soon as Sam caught a whiff of the aromatic oils used in the place he remembered that his mother had abandoned him and began to wail again. We made another tour and I picked up a couple of tourist brochures, settled myself down on the floor with my back against the wall and rocked him back to sleep. Eventually my legs, which have been stiff and cranky ever since the drive without cruise control, began to ache. I moved them, one at a time with my free hand, careful not to disturb Sam. The hour was broken up by a vist from a chubby red haired girl who cooed in a most maternal way at Sam and found me another brochure to read, by waves from the owner of the consignment store and the occasional word of greeting or comment on the weather from her customers. Feeling as though my bum were numb I managed to get myself off the floor and into the waiting room without waking Sam, settled myself on the couch and read the Halifax Chronicle Herald. The main feature story on the front page was about an eleven year old boy who won a math competition. I was relieved when Kerry emerged and Sam, instantly awake and wailing, became her charge again.
Then we went to the famous Frenchies. Almost everyone I met before I left told me how lucky I was to be going to Nova Scotia ... because they had Frenchies. So now I was about to experience the joy of second hand shopping raised to a fine art. I got two skirts for under $10. Kerry got lots of stuff for herself and the children. It was fun. Sam played in the bins of clothing and amused the women shoppers by talking to them and grinning happily.
Before coming home we stopped at the liquor store and I had my first taste of Nova Scotia wine. I bought a bottle of Jost’s Prima Rosa and was surprised by how much it tasted like a good Nouveau Beaujolais. After a great Asian pork dinner we settled in to watch Juno. I cried. Memories of being sixteen and pregnant, I guess, though Juno had a lot more attitude than I remember having at that age. It was a good day.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Finally!
July 9, 2008
The trip
I am here in Wolfville ... finally! Right now I have a dog on either side of me and I am sitting at Arrow’s little desk. Mica thinks I am wonderful because I took her out on Kenya’s collar and leash as soon as I came in from walking Kenya early this morning. There are no arguments between the dogs. Mica is simply the boss dog here and Kenya knew her place the minute she walked in the door.
It was a long drive from L’ile du Perrot. I left around 6 a.m. and there was already heavy traffic getting through Montreal, but I emerged from the Louis Hippolite Tunnel at 7 a.m. Had I left any later I’d have hit rush hour traffic and it likely would have taken at least two hours.
Then began the drive along the Trans Canada through Quebec. Quebec does it well with rest stops every few kilometres. These rest stops are very people- and dog-friendly with wooded areas, snack bars, bathrooms and picnic tables. In between these stops are gas stations. I paid $1.45.4 per litre in Quebec.
I stopped in Edmundston in the afternoon and stayed at a Days Inn. They are pet friendly and we had a good rest in an air conditioned room. After driving all day in an un-air-conditioned car in 31 degree temperatures it felt like heaven.
We were on the road again by 6:45 a.m. on Tuesday. The New Brunswick highway system is impressive. The road surfaces are like butter, the speed limit is 110, and there is almost no traffic, so I felt as if I were flying ... but across an alien landscape. It is beautiful of course. The highway has been carved out of spectacular landscape and you are often treated to great sweeping vistas, but it feels unpopulated. Not just because of the traffic ... but you travel across miles and miles of landscape without seeing any sign of habitation. Not even a cow. I did see four deer, a couple of small animals and a beautiful little fox ... all still and stiff beside the road.
I needed gas so I went off at Hartland where signs advertised gas. Then I searched. I came to an Irving station where the pumps were as still and dead as the road kill. I asked a motorist standing beside his car if there were a station further up the road. He didn’t know. He was from Ontario. I took my chances and drove and drove and drove until I finally came to a road that would take me to Hartland. I filled up at $1.40.5 and made my way back to the highway.
A couple of hours later I wanted to take a pee break, unpack a sandwich for me and fill up Kenya’s water bowl, so I left the highway again. This time I found myself on an inhospitable two lane highway with no shoulder between it and the barbed wire fence. Across the road were a few trailers perched on straggly lawns. We walked anyway and except for the occasional blast of wind as a transport rushed past, were quite alone. Kenya is developing the attitude I was forced to adopt in Africa. If the vehicle stops you take advantage of any bathroom available because it may be hours before the next opportunity arises. As a result she finished her business quickly. As I walked back to the car I thought about my own options. I opened both doors on the passenger side and hitched up my skirt, pushed aside my panties, and peed too. Quite a feat when your other hand is holding a leash. I learned a great many lessons in Africa, not the least valuable of which was to wear a skirt while traveling. A pit stop along the road to Nairobi with women on one side of the road and men on the other and only one very white bum mooning everyone is not easily forgotten.
New Brunswick is teaching me that you fill your tank wherever you actually see a station, and that you should not expect any amenities like toilets or picnic tables or even human beings from whom you might get directions. It was her experience with New Brunswick that made Kerry tell me to get a cell phone. I didn’t need it on the way here, but I am sure glad I have one for the trip back.
I filled the tank one more time before entering Nova Scotia. The price was $1.38.8. Imagine thinking that is cheap! Nova Scotia prices are higher. So far Ontario prices have been the lowest and Quebec’s the highest.
After the barrens of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia felt positively cozy. The man at the toll booth was very old and very sweet. Told me to turn on my air conditioning. I said I had none ... and he advised me to open my windows and travel at 60 mph. After a few miles of modern highway, I found myself on a two lane road with a crumbling tarry surface. Surely this couldn’t be Highway 14 West. I stopped at a friendly little frame house and got out of the car. The woman came out before I was halfway up her walk. Yes this was 14 West. I just had to keep following it and eventually I would get to a sign for Wolfville.
Well it wasn’t quite that simple, and 14 West continued for another 60 kilometres, but I felt immeasurably happier traveling at 80 kph along this very human road from one hamlet to the next than I had for all those hours flying along the super highway.
I passed a sign advertising Hants County and immediately saw a red muddy river bed that reminded me of my days at boarding school where we called our caramel pudding Avon River mud.
Almost before I knew it I was in Wolfville and heading up Kerry’s street. Every place in Nova Scotia is just a few miles from the next, just as everything in a smallish city like Ottawa is only a twenty minute drive away. So very different from traveling across large provinces or within large cities. The only times I have felt almost as small as I did in New Brunswick were in Mongolia and Namibia ... both of which have vast sparsely populated landscapes. Scale does matter. But something else matters too. Namibia did not feel as empty because there were so many wild animals moving and grazing in herds in the grasslands along the roads. The occasional warthog raced the vehicle, and the wild birds were so unafraid they sometimes became supper. And in Mongolia you would pass lone herdsmen traveling with their animals, and clusters of round gers ... the temporary settlements of nomadic families ... often enough to know you would never be completely stranded. New Brunswick felt much emptier to me.
I encountered almost more transports than cars. One almost rear ended me as we went through a construction zone where the speed limit was 50 kph. I slowed at a confusing intersection with flashing lights and felt the hot breath of the behemoth as the air horn blasted. My foot slammed reflexively down on the accelerator and I shot forward.
I was beginning to think there were no highway patrols in New Brunswick when a car passed me at 150 kmp. We were approaching a construction zone, and he found himself suddenly entering a funnel created by the construction barriers. He wove back and forth as he slowed down, but afterwards he crept along for a while. I thought he’s been scared by his near miss ... until I looked across the median and caught sight of the real reason he was driving sanely. A cop was writing a ticket for a motorist. The speeder kept up the slow pace for another three minutes and then sped away. About twenty kilometres later I had to move into the left lane as a traffic cop was ticketing the speed demon. I gloated. It happens so seldom that bad drivers and cops are actually in the same space at the same time.
Last night Kerry and Maurice took me out to Kingsport to wade in the red mud. It was not an entirely pleasurable experience as the red goo oozed up between my toes, but the village is quaint, the temperature was a good ten degrees cooler than it had been in Wolfville, and the ice cream was yummy..
Today we went to a Baha'ai gathering.
Thank goodness I am here!
The trip
I am here in Wolfville ... finally! Right now I have a dog on either side of me and I am sitting at Arrow’s little desk. Mica thinks I am wonderful because I took her out on Kenya’s collar and leash as soon as I came in from walking Kenya early this morning. There are no arguments between the dogs. Mica is simply the boss dog here and Kenya knew her place the minute she walked in the door.
It was a long drive from L’ile du Perrot. I left around 6 a.m. and there was already heavy traffic getting through Montreal, but I emerged from the Louis Hippolite Tunnel at 7 a.m. Had I left any later I’d have hit rush hour traffic and it likely would have taken at least two hours.
Then began the drive along the Trans Canada through Quebec. Quebec does it well with rest stops every few kilometres. These rest stops are very people- and dog-friendly with wooded areas, snack bars, bathrooms and picnic tables. In between these stops are gas stations. I paid $1.45.4 per litre in Quebec.
I stopped in Edmundston in the afternoon and stayed at a Days Inn. They are pet friendly and we had a good rest in an air conditioned room. After driving all day in an un-air-conditioned car in 31 degree temperatures it felt like heaven.
We were on the road again by 6:45 a.m. on Tuesday. The New Brunswick highway system is impressive. The road surfaces are like butter, the speed limit is 110, and there is almost no traffic, so I felt as if I were flying ... but across an alien landscape. It is beautiful of course. The highway has been carved out of spectacular landscape and you are often treated to great sweeping vistas, but it feels unpopulated. Not just because of the traffic ... but you travel across miles and miles of landscape without seeing any sign of habitation. Not even a cow. I did see four deer, a couple of small animals and a beautiful little fox ... all still and stiff beside the road.
I needed gas so I went off at Hartland where signs advertised gas. Then I searched. I came to an Irving station where the pumps were as still and dead as the road kill. I asked a motorist standing beside his car if there were a station further up the road. He didn’t know. He was from Ontario. I took my chances and drove and drove and drove until I finally came to a road that would take me to Hartland. I filled up at $1.40.5 and made my way back to the highway.
A couple of hours later I wanted to take a pee break, unpack a sandwich for me and fill up Kenya’s water bowl, so I left the highway again. This time I found myself on an inhospitable two lane highway with no shoulder between it and the barbed wire fence. Across the road were a few trailers perched on straggly lawns. We walked anyway and except for the occasional blast of wind as a transport rushed past, were quite alone. Kenya is developing the attitude I was forced to adopt in Africa. If the vehicle stops you take advantage of any bathroom available because it may be hours before the next opportunity arises. As a result she finished her business quickly. As I walked back to the car I thought about my own options. I opened both doors on the passenger side and hitched up my skirt, pushed aside my panties, and peed too. Quite a feat when your other hand is holding a leash. I learned a great many lessons in Africa, not the least valuable of which was to wear a skirt while traveling. A pit stop along the road to Nairobi with women on one side of the road and men on the other and only one very white bum mooning everyone is not easily forgotten.
New Brunswick is teaching me that you fill your tank wherever you actually see a station, and that you should not expect any amenities like toilets or picnic tables or even human beings from whom you might get directions. It was her experience with New Brunswick that made Kerry tell me to get a cell phone. I didn’t need it on the way here, but I am sure glad I have one for the trip back.
I filled the tank one more time before entering Nova Scotia. The price was $1.38.8. Imagine thinking that is cheap! Nova Scotia prices are higher. So far Ontario prices have been the lowest and Quebec’s the highest.
After the barrens of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia felt positively cozy. The man at the toll booth was very old and very sweet. Told me to turn on my air conditioning. I said I had none ... and he advised me to open my windows and travel at 60 mph. After a few miles of modern highway, I found myself on a two lane road with a crumbling tarry surface. Surely this couldn’t be Highway 14 West. I stopped at a friendly little frame house and got out of the car. The woman came out before I was halfway up her walk. Yes this was 14 West. I just had to keep following it and eventually I would get to a sign for Wolfville.
Well it wasn’t quite that simple, and 14 West continued for another 60 kilometres, but I felt immeasurably happier traveling at 80 kph along this very human road from one hamlet to the next than I had for all those hours flying along the super highway.
I passed a sign advertising Hants County and immediately saw a red muddy river bed that reminded me of my days at boarding school where we called our caramel pudding Avon River mud.
Almost before I knew it I was in Wolfville and heading up Kerry’s street. Every place in Nova Scotia is just a few miles from the next, just as everything in a smallish city like Ottawa is only a twenty minute drive away. So very different from traveling across large provinces or within large cities. The only times I have felt almost as small as I did in New Brunswick were in Mongolia and Namibia ... both of which have vast sparsely populated landscapes. Scale does matter. But something else matters too. Namibia did not feel as empty because there were so many wild animals moving and grazing in herds in the grasslands along the roads. The occasional warthog raced the vehicle, and the wild birds were so unafraid they sometimes became supper. And in Mongolia you would pass lone herdsmen traveling with their animals, and clusters of round gers ... the temporary settlements of nomadic families ... often enough to know you would never be completely stranded. New Brunswick felt much emptier to me.
I encountered almost more transports than cars. One almost rear ended me as we went through a construction zone where the speed limit was 50 kph. I slowed at a confusing intersection with flashing lights and felt the hot breath of the behemoth as the air horn blasted. My foot slammed reflexively down on the accelerator and I shot forward.
I was beginning to think there were no highway patrols in New Brunswick when a car passed me at 150 kmp. We were approaching a construction zone, and he found himself suddenly entering a funnel created by the construction barriers. He wove back and forth as he slowed down, but afterwards he crept along for a while. I thought he’s been scared by his near miss ... until I looked across the median and caught sight of the real reason he was driving sanely. A cop was writing a ticket for a motorist. The speeder kept up the slow pace for another three minutes and then sped away. About twenty kilometres later I had to move into the left lane as a traffic cop was ticketing the speed demon. I gloated. It happens so seldom that bad drivers and cops are actually in the same space at the same time.
Last night Kerry and Maurice took me out to Kingsport to wade in the red mud. It was not an entirely pleasurable experience as the red goo oozed up between my toes, but the village is quaint, the temperature was a good ten degrees cooler than it had been in Wolfville, and the ice cream was yummy..
Today we went to a Baha'ai gathering.
Thank goodness I am here!
Thursday, 3 July 2008
First Day on the Road
As soon as I can figure out how to get it from my laptop to my key to Maureen's computer, it will be posted!
I dunno! ... Nothing is working!
I have tried saving it in WP, in Word, in Open Office and as an RTF file ... Maureen's computer does not seem to have a word processor that is fully installed with all buttons working ... and none of my attempts have been successful. It is likely some very simple thing I am overlooking ... but I am blind to what it might be. The laptop is working well ... it is simply the connections between two computers that is failing the communication test.
And of course, no one here is any wiser than I am!
It is no longer first day on the road, of course, but Kenya and I are having a relaxing time ... good food ... a pool ... a fenced yard ... and new routes for walking. I am doing a bit of reading and it is good to reconnect with Maureen and Jeff.
I dunno! ... Nothing is working!
I have tried saving it in WP, in Word, in Open Office and as an RTF file ... Maureen's computer does not seem to have a word processor that is fully installed with all buttons working ... and none of my attempts have been successful. It is likely some very simple thing I am overlooking ... but I am blind to what it might be. The laptop is working well ... it is simply the connections between two computers that is failing the communication test.
And of course, no one here is any wiser than I am!
It is no longer first day on the road, of course, but Kenya and I are having a relaxing time ... good food ... a pool ... a fenced yard ... and new routes for walking. I am doing a bit of reading and it is good to reconnect with Maureen and Jeff.
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