Nostalgia Day

When I was a young woman, I wrote letters. My parents lived a day’s drive away and we kept in touch through letters and, usually, a weekly and expensive long-distance phone call. I worked part time but even with small children underfoot I made time to write. I needed the contact and knew that my parents needed the descriptions that kept them abreast of the development of the grandchildren that they deeply loved but all too seldom saw in person.

I wrote. With a pen, usually on notepaper although sometimes on whatever (usually three ring lined binder paper) that came to hand. I took care in the writing, both to keep it neat enough to read (mostly) and to keep the narrative interesting. And positive. In fact, the letters were not unlike the family blogs that many young mothers write now, but without, of course, the photographs. Photos were expensive, especially coloured ones, and were usually taken on ‘occasions’, labelled and sent infrequently.

My mother kept a lot of these letters. Here is a sample, a fairly short and innocuous one. (As I sorted through some of them to choose one to scan, I found far too many with content that should never hit a screen. Of which more later.)

I was sitting at the kitchen table writing this, with the breakfast dishes either pushed aside or stacked in the sink. As of this date the ED, Katie, is 8 going for 9, and the YD, Wendy, is 7 ½. Katie’s hair was copper coloured but her sister was a brunette. Wendy was missing a front tooth.

 

The year prior to this letter we had purchased an 100-acre piece of land, a combination of scrub (logged) bush and overgrown farm fields and built a cabin on it. We spent every weekend there, had snowmobiles and many trails and had equipped the daughters with very good quality winter snow gear. The music lessons were on the piano, a group lesson that was all I felt we could afford (see pricy snow gear above.)

Bugle was our beagle. And the high school teachers were on strike.  

This letter is rather shorter than my usual report to the parents – I guess because I was using note paper. And it is simply a report. In every letter there was a report, but I often wandered off into introspection or comments on the political scene or just plain rambling. Very much like a blog but with a very limited audience.

Just for fun, here is one more page, this one from 1979, the year Canada switched from imperial to metric measurement.

I wrote with a lined sheet underneath the plain one and that is why the writing does not straggle all over the place. Much. And the news is about the ED, who is now on a gymnastics team, having bunged herself up at practice, causing her mother to drive at illegal speeds to the gym, even more illegal speeds to the ER at our local hospital and …wait, with the poor kid writhing in pain, for an interminable time to see a bored intern. This activity was followed by a visit to our family doctor, Dr. Batley, who took the whole thing seriously. It is an indelible memory.

It was amusing to sort through some of these letters … all sorts of things I did not remember, among them one of JG’s relatives being arrested and one of my relatives having a total blow-up with the spouse. Sigh. I know that ‘the’ should have been ‘their’ spouse, but I cannot make myself do it.

These letters all live in file folders in the bottom of my filing cabinet and will, I am sure, annoy my daughters no end when they have to deal with them after I am dead and gone. There is also a fat file with their report cards, articles about them, and all that sort of stuff. Cannot bear not to have it. I take it out and look at it from time to time.

As I am sure my mother did with these.

Somehow this turned into an essay about wood.

January 21st, 2020

So, that was Christmas and I made it through, traditions intact, these including aspic (forgot one ingredient), socks under the tree (one grumbly recipient who got plain ones and wanted silly ones) and aforesaid tree spitting needles as it was dragged across the living room floor and out the door. JG only forgot two gifts that he bought a while back and I did not, as far as I know, forget any. That I have found, that is.  Not bad. Not at all bad. And today I actually went to town and exchanged a Christmas present.

From the website

I think this is the first time I have ever taken back a present. The gift was a sweater chosen by the YD for her father to give me and it was on her advice that I exchanged it. When I tried it on, it was obvious that the style was not for me. I live in hip length cardigans and pullovers and this garment was an asymmetrical open front that hung all wrong at about knee length in front and pulled up at the back. Oh, dear. Anyway, I changed it for a dressing gown, probably the most opulent garment I have ever had … pale pink silky fabric on the outside and white plush on the inside. (The one advertised turned out to be grey – use your imagination). The ratty one that I have been wearing is going into the wash and then into the discard pile. It is not even fit for the rag bag and certainly not to the recycle. Unless someone wants to use it as padding in a quilt.

As for quilts, as the cold weather crept up on us, my husband, for the first time in my memory, complained of not being warm enough at night. I tried various configurations of duvet and blanket on the bed, but nothing seemed to be working. As a last resort we purchased an electric blanket on line. Twenty-four hours later it was delivered to the door. This on-line shopping is not bad, eh, considering that we live at the dead end of three kilometres of bad road. And now we have on the bed a sheet, a quilt, the electric blanket and another light quilt on top. Who needs one of those new, trendy weighted blankets! And JG is warm. Neither of us is tossing or even turning, but we are nice and warm.

Our bedroom is usually cold. We heat, unregenerate Neanderthals that we are, with wood. In really cold weather we run a wood fired, forced air furnace and can heat the whole house (in fact, we can overheat the whole house, depending on what kind of wood we feed into the maw of the furnace). When it is not as cold, or when the electricity might be iffy, we do not gamble on the forced air and turn to wood stoves, of which we have one on each floor. JG’s computer, TV and other toys are downstairs in the same room as the bigger of the two woodstoves. If he stokes it up too much, his room can get very hot. If he doesn’t, the rest of the house doesn’t. Especially our bedroom, at the far end. Four layers of insulation are not too many.

This heating with wood thing consumes a lot of JG’s time and energy. Over time he has taught himself to be able to judge what trees should be encouraged and what trees should be harvested. Since the major ice storm we had in 1998, there are plenty in the later category, and we have 300 acres of land, mostly wooded, from which to chose. The ideal tree, of course, lies close to a trail, will not hit anything good as it is felled, and does not have rot in the wrong spots. It is also nice if it splits well, stacks well and dries well.

After thinking about this last statement for a while, I decided to add a short photo essay on the subject of harvesting wood. Labour-intensive. These photos are all of stove and furnace wood harvesting. We also do improvement cuts in the bush, and that is a story for another day.

 After a windstorm, this tree will become firewood.

Here is another candidate. This was one big maple. Splitting it was hard work, but worth it, because it split nicely.

Below is the harvester, chainsaw roaring, clearing small stuff.

He is well equipped. This is an articulated claw used, as you see, to pick up whole logs.

The red item on the back of the tractor is a winch, used to haul logs out of the bush.

Logs cut up and split, ready to stack in an open area to dry.

Drying.

When the split wood is thoroughly dry, it is moved in stages from the long pile to the ready pile by the "wood door" near the furnace inside. Here is the chain gang moving and stacking.

Just for scale, and because she was so cute. And so sure-footed.

The Christmas Letter 2019 Version

The Christmas Letter, 2019

As usual, I am getting around to the Christmas letter too late, and hindsight is sure to be 2020 on this one

We did not have a great 2019. For one thing, Jim turned 80 and is completely convinced that malignant fate has it in for him. It is taking so much longer to do things than it used to and the floor is so inconveniently far away. He does have the usual multi cord pile of wood at the ready, with a little help from his daughter, but is muttering that we may need to think about a different heat source in future years as it is a [censored] amount of work to amass what is needed.

Note that the help listed is from ‘daughter’ not ‘daughters’. In November of 2018 Wendy left Canada in a swirl of high tension and took up her post as High Commissioner in Pakistan. So fraught was the entry at that time that she had to leave her animal family behind her. She left them here of course. It was not possible to ship them until January of 2019 and at that point a friend (Wendy has wonderful friends) escorted them to Islamabad. There they joined Her Excellency in the official residence

where there is a full time cook, several other staff, flowers in February and six guest bedrooms for Callie to shed fur in. A most impressive place and Wendy is making the most of it. If you Google, put in her name plus Pakistan to see some of what her job entails.

Islamabad (I had to learn all this) is in the north of Pakistan and is a newish city in which the halls of government and most of the embassies sit inside compounds in gated communities. The Canadian High Commission has its own walls and guards inside this area and so there is safe walking and biking. Wendy’s other escape is up into the hills north of the city where a lot of the diplomatic community hike on weekends and she is enjoying this enormously. Her dog’s arthritis prevents her from doing this strenuous stuff, so the dog stays home and goes for gentle walks among the flowers while her mistress gets lost in the rocks.

While we are on the subject of arthritis and gentle walks and all that, my occupation for most of 2019 has been having and recovering from knee surgery. A knee replacement in March was not fun and I have been clawing my way back ever since. Right knee, so I was stuck out here for six weeks unable to drive, doing not much except physio and ended up with a fervent desire never to be cut open again. Medication and aqua-therapy have been my salves and things are improving.

Meanwhile my sweet baby granddaughter turned sixteen and is the proud owner of a fine little red car, courtesy of her doting grandfather. She is doing fine in her Ecole Secondaire, has become a track athlete, working mostly at the sprint distances, is being paid to coach gymnastics and is now taller than her mother. She is also taller than I am and when I told her to quit growing, she told me to quit shrinking. (I did refer to arthritis, I think. My whole spine has become a spiral, sort of.)

Steve finished his stint as Dean in June and is now happily back in the lab as an emeritus prof, having ditched his suits and ties and all that, not to mention the travelling and wining and dining of prospective donors. He did have to haul out a suit for Seb’s wedding …

Tthis is a photo from the day, the groom standing centre with the long hair … and I think Katie prevented him from bundling the whole lot into a donation bin. Katie, as you can see, is not looking her (yikes) fifty-three years and is full steam in her lab, editing a professional journal and making a reputation for herself. They also renovated their kitchen this year, spending a month washing dishes they had to carry down two flights of stairs to the laundry room while the reno crept on. I would not have lasted, but this woman is an iron butterfly.

I can’t remember if I told you about my stint as an ESL teacher. A committee in Perth sponsored five Syrian families and I ended up last fall and winter  taking one of the younger men from two-word sentences to Grade 12 equivalent readiness. He is now planning to requalify as a computer repair person and I am quite proud of him. It kept me hopping. They are all lovely families and they keep having Canadian babies with great gusto.

It is starting to seem like a long drive to Ottawa. But we have friends and fun in Perth, a half hour drive for as long as that distance stays doable. Last Friday we went to a Christmas party put on by a PROBUS club to which Jim belongs. The entertainment was provided by an Elvis impersonator in white satin and blue sequins who came and held my hand while singing a ditty, causing my evil friend to laugh until she cried, I guess at the expression on my face. This group of Jim’s has a lot of dinners and excursions. The next planned is a Robbie Burns Dinner in January, for which I have acquired a Canadian tartan kilt. Perth was settled and is still overloaded with people of Scottish background and I feel the need to make a statement, in among the ladies in arisaids and their family tartan skirts. It is a long time since my last pleated plaid skirt.

The Perth area is also unredeemedly Conservative, a bit of a downer at election time. We had a fine Green Party candidate this last round and he went nowhere, in spite of the best efforts of some of my friends. And yeah, I voted Green. For what good it did. It was a messy election and I confess to not being too enthralled with any of our Parliamentarians’ credentials. Didn’t we used to have better quality people? Some of the time, anyway. Yes, I remember Dief.

I have just spent a horrible day Christmas shopping in Ottawa with nearest and at the moment not dearest. Why is shopping with a man such an exercise in mis-communication, hmm? You would think that after 57 (cripes) years, we would have it worked out. But, no. Oh well. Speaking of Christmas, we have been tasked with The Feast this year. For several years Katie has done it, but somehow the turkey is scheduled to come home to roast in Lanark on the 25^th. This is not so bad, however, as both daughters will, without doubt, end up in the kitchen doing the worst of the work. The joys of competent offspring.

Best and warmest wishes for a fine Yule and even finer New Year.

An Uninspired Post

I made a meatloaf for supper tonight. I once probably had a recipe for this dish … I would bet it was from my mother-in-law. She was a Cook. She could bake anything and have it turn out looking professional. She clipped lots of recipes out of the paper and magazines and tried them out. She could put on a company dinner for a dozen or more people without turning a hair. Our younger daughter takes after her. Skipped a generation, as they say. Aforesaid YD is probably wiping brow as she reads this and rejoicing that she is living on the other side of the world. She did not and does not like meatloaf.

Anyway, what I do is throw ground meat, egg, breadcrumbs and whatever is handy into a bowl, mix it and throw it in the oven for an hour or so. Very forgiving dish. Never twice quite the same. As I glopped the mixture around, I found myself thinking about how many times I had made this dish. Say at least once a month in cold weather – ten times a year. Times the 56 (fifty-six!) years I have been married and responsible for putting supper on the table. That is one hell of a lot of meatloaf. That is one hell of a lot of years of putting supper on the table, for that matter.

It would be easier on me and on my long-suffering husband if I liked to cook. He likes to eat, my husband, and supper is one of the high points of his day. It has to be a set meal with meat and vegetables and salad or greens and a starch, although I have beaten him back to the point where Friday is hamburger day on a regular basis. He also cooks, or, rather, barbeques and so he will often be responsible for the meat portion of the meal. But the planning is my job. I find it a boring one and I do not clip recipes out and try out something new unless pushed to it. Even though I have been given an electric pot and a sous-vide cooker on various occasions. Oh, and a wok. Twice. I am not inspired.

To live is to have to do at least some housework, hmm? Even if you are living on the street with your possessions in a grocery cart, you still have to pick up your bedding and put it in the cart every morning. Most of us do much, much more. There are dust bunnies to be hauled out from under the furniture, fingerprints to remove from vertical surfaces, horizontal surfaces to polish, and all this after you tidy up and put away the huge number of things that get put on them. We all own too much stuff. And we wear too much stuff. I have just finished putting away the summer weight clothes and getting out the winter weight ones and within a few weeks will have to repeat this for winter coats and boots. And all this is just inside. JG spent the afternoon removing leaves from his lawn after first servicing the leaf-removing machine. And this morning he was cleaning furnace pipes.

If I sound cranky about all this, it is not without foundation. I feel cranky. I want to be Lady Mary from Downton Abbey and not, not, complain that I have nothing to do. I would like a maid to keep my clothes in order, a cook and a housekeeper, and maybe even a footman to iron my newspaper. What a strange and wonderful world that was, both for the people above stairs and the minions below. JG and I are re-watching the TV series with a view to remembering who and what it is all about before going to see the film. We enjoyed it the first time and are enjoying it again as we find we have forgotten a lot of the plot and some of the characters.

Easier to deal with than the plot and characters of the election, at that. I still have no idea how I am going to vote. I have never missed voting in an election since I was eligible to do so and am not going to break that streak, but wow, what a lack of viable choice. Well, at least I am not an American. JG is at present watching one of the Democratic debates. He is a braver person than I.
So are you, if you have managed to get this far. There are not even any photos to break up the text. Next time I will post about my flowering cacti, with illustrations, and so you have that to look forward to seeing.

And tomorrow it is back to left-over turkey.

Assessing Mr. Dress-up

It has been more than a little surprising for me to watch the continuing fuss being made over Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s appearances in black (and brown) face make-up. Although the community I grew up in and the schools I attended were all “integrated”, I have always been aware that prejudice against Canadians with dark skins exists and is difficult for them. To put it mildly. I have seen and felt that prejudice in action. However, I have also always believed that in Canada there is redress for those whose lives are impacted by such prejudice. There are laws forbidding it.  There is good will and friendship. If I had thought about it, I would have said that appearing as a ‘genie’ at a costume party would not be particularly offensive to anyone. And I would have cited the Liberal party as providing leadership in fighting prejudice.

So, what is with Justin and the multiple appearances in offensive costume?   Why, it appears to me as being the principle question, was this not addressed when he first appeared on the scene as a leadership candidate? I suspect there are two aspects to the omission, if omission it was. One is that the people vetting Trudeau were, like me, smug members of the Anglo-Saxon majority and dismissive of ‘youthful’ peccadillos. Again, as I have been, lacking in awareness of what a big deal anything that looks like political incorrectness has become. And, most important, Trudeau junior just had too many attractive qualities that would allow the Liberal party to do well at election time. The same qualities, in some cases, that lured him into putting the make-up on.

The man has charisma, good looks, polished delivery of platitudes that he obviously seems to believe and a distinguished background as the son of a very clever politician. We watched him grow up. We were moved by his eulogy of his father. He fit into the political world quickly and well. His good looks and athleticism were a fine show of what a Canadian could be, we thought. He is a winner, we all thought. Does it matter that he does not have a resume of increasingly responsible positions in management and government to offer as evidence of his ability to lead? Men with those qualities had not proved out, recently, to be election winners. And in order to govern, hey, first you have to win.

My father’s family was large L Liberal. I grew up both liberal and Liberal. I was proud to be a member of the party that could offer Lester Pearson and Pierre Trudeau as leaders, backed by talented if unruly cabinets.  But along the way, the large L fell out of my value system. I thought Chretien did a good job, mostly, but his resume was pretty thin. At least, as a career politician, he had held and done well in responsible cabinet posts. So had Paul Martin Jr done well in Finance, but it turned out that he did not have the ability to lead. And it has just gone downhill ever since. We seem to be unable to produce people who have the qualities to do the job and also want the job.

I have heard from more than one source that none of the leaders of the parties in contention in this federal election are appealing candidates. The Conservative Party leader is a colourless man whose speaking style does not inspire. Nor does his party’s platform. The NDP is weak and the Green Party insular; both of them lack any experience in their senior ranks of actual governing and their talking points reflect this. The other choice is Mr. Charm. Mr. Sunny Ways. Mr. Dress-up. He is certainly not colourless. He talks a fine line. In the last election he pulled his party with him to a credible win. It will be interesting to see if he can get past this set of blunders and present himself and his party as a credible choice.

Me, I don’t want to vote for any of them. I will have to look only at the local candidates. And maybe hold my nose.

Don't trip on the eggshells.

It is back to school week, and Facebook is covered with shots of first day outfits and scholars. Posts are appearing from the mothers of kids who have launched, from kindergarten to college/university. At both these ends of the range, the youngest scholar leaves behind an empty space … either a half day with no children at home or a home with no children in residence. An empty nest. But not forgotten. You think and worry and hope – eggshells in the nest.

I have experienced both these vacancies. I still remember launching the YD both into junior kindergarten (she was determined to walk to the school BY HERSELF, Mommy) and driving away from her first-year university residence after she had almost literally shoved me into the car and sent me on my way. The similar launches of older siblings are not quite the same as those moments. The empty house echoes, what to do next becomes a decision rather than a response and you find yourself shopping, cooking and doing the other household chores differently, to name a few changes. And you wait. You wait for the door to slam, the phone to ring, the mailman’s thump (yes, remember snail mail), the in-box to ding. Sometimes the response is not good when it comes, but usually all the worrying you have done was to no purpose and the launch successful. And then you watch them soar, caught between pride and loneliness.

Both of the classic launches are a long way behind me and since then there have been more departures of adult children to jobs in different countries, on different continents, to a different (married, perhaps) life. In all cases, for me, I have been left with some echoes, lots of left -over packing material and, frequently, the contents of a frig, house plants too big to move, or winter gear (not needed in Africa). Once I was left with a house to sell. From time to time I have had a grandchild or dog and cat to mother while their real mothers did something else. And, always, they come back. Not to stay, except for a short time, but for long enough to tell stories of their adventures.

I am an old lady – watching the fledglings flap away happened long ago. But watching the next generation fly is very much with me. And the grandchild is a constant source of wonder and pride. Her wings are growing. Soon she will launch herself. I hope to be there to see it, as my parents and in-laws were there to watch our daughters and savour every moment, good and bad.

Yes, they may land with a thump on their beak the odd time, be forced down into thorny branches, be battered by storm and rain, take the wrong direction for a while. There is no such thing as a perfect life or even perfect safety. Mostly they will manage. Often they will overcome.

 So, mother of a freshman newly installed in a dorm with in-bed computer access, mother of a grade seven dressed in high style for her first day in middle-school, mother of a Grade 3 who got a fine teacher, mother of whomever, relax. You may have egg shells at present, but soon you will hear the whoosh of wings and the stories will start. And you will be proud of their grace and strength both when you welcome them and when they swoop off again.

I have certainly squeezed every nuance possible out of this metaphor. I can almost hear my mother telling me so. Eggshells are fine things on their own.

Meme lifted wholesale from Nance. Thank you!

Today, Mary G Is:

Wearing: a pair of trousers that she bought in Zimbabwe in 1992. "Where did you get those pants*?" queried the Grandkid yesterday (when I also had them on). When I told her, she said "I thought so." The look on her face was hilarious.

Reading: Rereading, in fact. Rosemary Kirstein's Steerswoman series. If she does not get books five and six done soon, I will die without finding out the denouement. Cripes. First argument I have ever seen that makes living into extreme old age palatable.

Working On: Six months worth of backed up sorting, ironing and mending. I blame the knee surgery, but in truth it might have been piled up like that anyway.

Hearing:  Still procrastinating on making an appointment with a hearing aid provider.

Making For Dinner: Leftovers. We had Sunday dinner with the family on Saturday.  Pretty classy leftovers including jumbo shrimp and a fascinating Japanese cheesecake.

Thinking About: The YD who is working her tail off at her job. Not about to ease up anytime soon, either, as I understand it. However, she could take five minutes and send me an update email.

Planning: Spring cleaning. May get this done by Christmas.

* The pants are beige background with burnt umber patches and green animal outlines superimposed. And baggy. Very baggy.

Knee Capped

Here follows another of Mary's medical posts. If you are getting tired of them, imagine how I feel.

This time I had knee replacement surgery. For some years my right leg has been so twisted and the knee what my surgeon described as 'bone on bone' that I have been much restricted in taking to the bush. Last spring I signed up for knee surgery to see if I could not only get the knee fixed, but also help the spasms in my lower back brought on, in part, by my walking like a duck.

This spring I finally got on the list and trudged in to the hospital in late March to get my knew knee. {Sorry!) What they do is chop out the old one. put in a nice new metal three piece and sew you up again.

Then you get to stay over in the hospital a day while you get some weight-bearing back and limp off home, where you should have pre-equipped yourself with a walker, elastic support stockings and someone to look after you. You have a fine seam, in my case stapled shut, on your knee, considerable bruising, and the elastic stockings quickly cause all the top layer of skin from your ankle up to turn into confetti. Also, it hurts. (Please feel free to imagine the word "ouch" frequently interspersed in this post). Oh yes,you also have pages of exercises that you are supposed to do many times each day, including lying with your leg propped on four or five pillows.

In my case, my husband cooks, cleans and critiques with great skill. He had a knee replacement himself quite some time ago, but avers that he can't remember much about it. I have a reclining chair with electric controls, a good iPad and neighbours who bring bags of magazines. All set.

I quickly found that the walker was a [censored] pain to use. If I wanted to carry anything, I had to push it ahead of me with one hand. Not too useful. So I moved to a cane and that worked pretty well. It even allowed me to get organized enough to bring my poor husband his morning coffee in bed, provided I used a cup with a cover. The support stockings are a pain. They hurt going on, they hurt coming off and you have to wash the damn things out all the time. The exercise sheet was more than daunting. Like, owie. However, bags of frozen peas and flexible ice packs are very, very useful.

After two weeks you trek back to the hospital, (in our case over washed out gravel roads that bounce the knee around severely) and they get the staples out, check for infection and give you more pages of exercises. Note, if you are contemplating having this surgery, that three weeks of pain, and pain killers that don't work as well as you want them to, are standard. Plus, none of your trousers will fit over the bandages. Get a very soft track suit.

What I did not think about ahead of time, but should have, is that if it is your right knee, you are not allowed to drive for six (6!) weeks. So your someone to look after you has to drive you to all your physiotherapy appointments, doctors' appointments and anywhere else you need to go. Roads getting more and more washed out. [Insert ouch]

Did I mention cabin fever in there anywhere.

Anyway, I am now past the five week mark, have ditched the stockings and the cane except for walking outside, am cleared onto the exercise bike and am looking forward to getting my wheels back and getting on with my life. Or, perhaps, I should say getting back to my life. If it were not for my best coffee friend, I would probably be writing this from a locked ward.

And yesterday my therapist told me that I was walking straight all wrong, backwards in fact, and gave me another sheet of exercises. [Insert curse word of your choice].

The Perfect Comeback.

I have a very bad habit of going over unfortunate events in my mind after they have happened. And I often find that the perfect response will occur to me long after the time to have made it has passed. As happened yesterday.

I have a car where the hatchback is moved up and down by a push button, rather than having to be lifted or lowered by hand. As I was opening it in the grocery store parking lot yesterday, an elderly and somewhat untidy man was walking by.

 "Wouldn't you like it if your husband had a button like that?" he said, jovially.

I was rendered speechless. There is nothing, NOTHING, about me that ought to render me vulnerable to even mild misogynist jokes. I am an old and somewhat untidy lady. wearing a shapeless coat and with short white hair. What is with the 'all women want sex' message to someone like me? I just stared at the poor idiot and he trotted on, chuckling.

About half way home (half an hour drive), it came to me. What I should have said.

"This  button also shuts it up. If you have a similar button, allow me to use it."

Oh well.

The Trouble with Trees

 The trouble with trees is that they break off, fall over in a high wind or otherwise mess up your home or road or power line. Oh, and they shed huge quantities of leaves and crud in the fall, pollen in the spring and nasty bugs on webs in the summer. Their root systems head unerringly for your drains or lift your walkways. Wayward branches tap on your window in the middle of the night or fall off the tree onto your head. (This actually happened to me.) Tree trunks provide a home for various nasty creepy-crawlies and if there is decay, woodpeckers go after the bugs until your head pounds too. Why, she asked rhetorically, would anyone want a tree?

Why would anyone not want a tree. They provide shade. They adorn landscapes with brilliant colours in the fall. The wind makes music soughing through the branches. Draped with snow, dotted with tiny spring buds or naked against a pewter sky, trees are always beautiful.

When we built our forever house in the woods, we chose a site on slanted ground at the edge of an old orchard.  When it was a working orchard, there was a rail fence surrounding these trees and after the orchard was abandoned in about 1905, young deciduous and evergreen trees grew up around the fence. Bears, raccoons and other hungry wildlife destroyed most of the apple trees over time, but one still remains and, when we built, we left a line of the volunteer trees on the south-west side of the house.

One, especially, an oak sapling, became a favourite as it grew from a single whip into a shapely shade tree. There were also both red and sugar maples, a birch and one majestic pine.

The oak sapling can be seen in front of the back end
of the floor joist I am carrying.

Grown into a shapely oak.

The full line of trees, sugar maple on the left, oak busily growing, red maples.

The pine, the birch and the oak are still with us, but all of the maples are now down. First the sugar maple died, probably from having its roots, clinging to shallow soil above bedrock, pounded during the building process. Two more red maples followed it into firewood, leaving a great growing space for the oak and remaining red maple. But, in a wind storm this summer, a large branch of the red maple broke and fell onto the roof. And it was determined that the tree must be cut down to prevent the rest of it from destroying the living room’s big glass windows.

JG invited a neighbour to help and they put a cable around the tree, tied to the tractor, so that the tree would, they hoped, fall exactly between the oak and the birch, damaging neither. This worked pretty well although we did lose a couple of branches off the oak. The tree was cut up, the log hauled away to become firewood (we heat with a wood furnace) and the debris raked and taken away. And there is now a big gap in our shade line.

The gap is not entirely bad. We had been so surrounded by trees that the sunset and night sky were barely visible and now I can see both coloured cloud at sunset and stars at night. JG put up a rattan blind to give my favourite porch chair afternoon shade. And the oak has room to grow into a mighty tree.

Not a baby any more.

The obigatory spring posts used to start out "I am in the city babysitting the grandkid" but I can't start that way any more. Yep, in the city. Replacing the parents while they fly off to a conference in Europe. Sitting by while the almost 15 yr old does her homework, practices her music, looks after the menagerie and packs her own lunch. Doesn't get much more peaceful than this. She even gets herself up in the morning and prefers to walk to school. Mind you, between music practice, sports and her job (!), I do not see much of her.

I did clean up the kitchen a bit this morning, but her mother has thoughtfully left a whole list of precooked meals and a menu of what gets used on which night, and so I am not cooking much. Not to mention that the YD has stocked her sister's freezer with lasagna. And is booked to drive Miss G to  her track practice. I am left with nothing to do but chat with the cat. And enjoy a glorious spring day, not at our place where the black flies are rampant but on city streets where there are few to none.

Booking coffee dates with friends. Shopping. Sitting out on the patio with a new book. (Not sure yet if I like it or not.) Eh baby, you have come a long way and I have landed in clover.

Looking after her used to be a lot more work. Mr frog had to be towed back to the top of the hill and so did she.