Even though it’s only been five winters for me here in Lanark County, I can now tell you with confidence that I am OVER winter.
The beauty of the first snowfall is always something to behold. When that white blanket of fluff comes and wraps up everything in its cold, cottony looking cocoon, there’s something almost magical about it. The way the snow looks like frosting on the branches as well as the perfect, smooth landscape of the surrounding bush It’s easy to get caught up in the magic and forget that snow means winter, which means a whole new set of footwear.
As Peter bravely leaves during the first day of all that snow, I realized that I had forgotten to return a movie we’d rented. I ran up the stairs to catch him before he went out. Too late, so I stepped out on the porch to see Peter brushing snow off the car.
He saw me and came towards me, while I had the movie waving wildly in my hand as if the gesture alone would relay my message. The problem came when as he came towards me in his safe, winter-treaded boots, I stepped one step outside onto the snowy porch in my slick-bottomed Uggs.
This is where the whoops came in. That whoops that hits you when you realize several things at once: Whoops, I forgot, it’s snowing, whoops the porch hasn’t been shovelled yet, and whoops I have zero traction to try and keep me on my feet. And the biggest whoops was upon me as I fruitlessly tried waving my arms around to keep my balance. Taking another ill-advised step, I sealed my fate, as well as my pain.
And then there was the bang, the bang of my ribs, shoulder and hip smacking down on the snowy stairs, knocking the wind and pride right out of me.
Peter came running to help me. I tried to stand on my own and laugh it off, but it hurt. And it hurt more when I realized I couldn’t stand up, not because of injury, but because of my boots. No traction, no stand. So I had to crawl up the stairs on my hands and knees, Peter right behind me. What view he must’ve had. Humilation much?
Embarrassment fled when I tried to stand and take off my boots. My back screamed at me that it was mad as hell and not taking any more. And then I screamed, wondering who had just whacked me in the back with a sledgehammer and a chainsaw. I couldn't believe there was no blood, no entrails. It hurt that much.
Peter had left. He was running late, and had no clue I had just seemingly disconnected the upper half of my body from my lower half.
Twenty minutes later I managed to make it to my bed. Fifteen minutes after that I’d managed to get my boots off. The pain was absolutely unbelievable and I had no idea what I’d done. All I knew is that I couldn’t support my upper body at all, and there was no way I was old enough to experience this crap.
It’s been three days now and I’m well on the way to recovery. I rested and had Peter do just about everything for three days. I have to admit, it was kind of fun to watch Peter run around like a housewife with her head cut off.
But most of all, even though my back will be fine, I am now, more than ever, convinced that snow and Joyce just don’t mix.
See you again in May, when the snow has grown tired of us.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
All Good Road Trips Must Come to an End. . .
Amy and I had experienced a great visit in Carleton County, New Brunswick. Our trip was coming to an end. The extra day we stayed was going to be over too quickly, and we had a train car to eat in, as well as some moose to find.
The Canadian Pacific rail cars that are Sara and Ian’s restaurant is so much more than my Corner Gas reference of last week.
The first train car is the dining car, the second, the kitchen. The dining car has been restored to its former glory, with shining wood and gleaming brass accents that provide a warm, comfortable, intimate feeling to the dining experience. With the candles lit, you can picture romantic proposals and anniversary celebrations happening all around you. Really, the atmosphere is wonderful.
I barely know Sara, really, but I was overcome with pride on her behalf. And then there is Chef Ian, who prepares everything fresh daily (thus, the name of their place. . .Fresh). The meat, the vegetables, the salads, the bread. . . everything was perfect. And finishing off our meal with those exquisite little chocolate crème brules was the absolute best.
I am sad that Sara’s restaurant is so far away, but trust me people, you must eat there at some point in your life. Trust me on this.
Now that Amy and I had experienced one of the best meals of our lives, we realized that this would be our last night in Carleton County. We chatted with our friends until late into the night, not really caring that our drive home would be long, and probably not nearly as fun as the anticipation of getting to New Brunswick.
As Amy and I drove away from Carleton County and a really great experience, we were already making plans for the next time Amy would visit. She promised she would never again go to New Brunswick without me.
It was at that moment when we encountered the bald eagles and took some great pictures. We laughed that it was happening as we left, that our ‘eagle watch’ wasn’t very helpful after all. But we were still proud of our pictures. Amy mentioned that the only thing that would make it absolutely perfect is if we could see a moose.
That didn’t happen for awhile. As we left New Brunswick, we were enthralled with the beauty of the Madawaska River and the surrounding landscape that we had missed in the dark of our arrival three days before.
We had travelled at least an hour before Amy saw her first moose. I’m pretty sure we were into Quebec at this time. The moose was ahead of us, on the highway.
Before you get too freaked that a collision was on the way, let me just say that this moose was well positioned . . . in the back of a pickup truck with a pole through its mouth and out its behind. Amy wasn’t exactly pleased. But hey, she saw her moose and two others on our trip home. And yes, both of the other moose (meese?) were dead in the back of hunters’ trucks.
Sure, it was gross, and not quite the way we imagined encountering moose. But she saw three moose, right? That counts.
I just can’t wait for Amy’s next visit.
The Canadian Pacific rail cars that are Sara and Ian’s restaurant is so much more than my Corner Gas reference of last week.
The first train car is the dining car, the second, the kitchen. The dining car has been restored to its former glory, with shining wood and gleaming brass accents that provide a warm, comfortable, intimate feeling to the dining experience. With the candles lit, you can picture romantic proposals and anniversary celebrations happening all around you. Really, the atmosphere is wonderful.
I barely know Sara, really, but I was overcome with pride on her behalf. And then there is Chef Ian, who prepares everything fresh daily (thus, the name of their place. . .Fresh). The meat, the vegetables, the salads, the bread. . . everything was perfect. And finishing off our meal with those exquisite little chocolate crème brules was the absolute best.
I am sad that Sara’s restaurant is so far away, but trust me people, you must eat there at some point in your life. Trust me on this.
Now that Amy and I had experienced one of the best meals of our lives, we realized that this would be our last night in Carleton County. We chatted with our friends until late into the night, not really caring that our drive home would be long, and probably not nearly as fun as the anticipation of getting to New Brunswick.
As Amy and I drove away from Carleton County and a really great experience, we were already making plans for the next time Amy would visit. She promised she would never again go to New Brunswick without me.
It was at that moment when we encountered the bald eagles and took some great pictures. We laughed that it was happening as we left, that our ‘eagle watch’ wasn’t very helpful after all. But we were still proud of our pictures. Amy mentioned that the only thing that would make it absolutely perfect is if we could see a moose.
That didn’t happen for awhile. As we left New Brunswick, we were enthralled with the beauty of the Madawaska River and the surrounding landscape that we had missed in the dark of our arrival three days before.
We had travelled at least an hour before Amy saw her first moose. I’m pretty sure we were into Quebec at this time. The moose was ahead of us, on the highway.
Before you get too freaked that a collision was on the way, let me just say that this moose was well positioned . . . in the back of a pickup truck with a pole through its mouth and out its behind. Amy wasn’t exactly pleased. But hey, she saw her moose and two others on our trip home. And yes, both of the other moose (meese?) were dead in the back of hunters’ trucks.
Sure, it was gross, and not quite the way we imagined encountering moose. But she saw three moose, right? That counts.
I just can’t wait for Amy’s next visit.
Monday, 12 November 2007
If I’m Ever Missing, You Can Find Me in Carleton County, New Brunswick
Road Trip, Part Three of Four
Twelve hours of driving in the rain brought us to Amy’s dear friends, Sara and Scott. Amy told me that they lived just across the road from the St. John River, but in that dark hour of midnight, she could have told me the entire cast of Heroes parties naked across the road and I couldn’t disagree. The sound of water rushing lazily past could have been an indication. But then again, who knows how hard the cast of Heroes parties?
Sara’s parents were in the driveway right behind us. We hadn’t made it into the house yet when we’d been hugged and greeted like long-lost relatives (the good kind). I knew then that we would have a good time, just as I knew that Sara’s parents, Haze and Bonnie, were my kind of people.
After Sara’s husband Scott had us settled, I relaxed as Amy fell into easy conversation with her friends, catching up on everything that had happened in the past 6 years, up to the past month, in which Sara, just 32, had opened her first restaurant in a train car.
Amy and I were both excited about the novelty of eating in a train car, and I had visions of Corner Gas characters with a Mel’s Diner type crowd to engage in some New Brunswick banter. too bad Amy wouldn’t understand the Corner Gas reference.
When Sara returned from her restaurant that first night, she brought with her four small bowls of something I now call Nirvana, but which Sara calls chocolate crème brule. After one bite of that unbelievable morsel of Heaven, Amy and I shared a look that said, “We will eat at this place before we leave, and do everything we can to kidnap the chef.”
Daylight brought stunning beauty. Once outside I walked about 40 feet and stood on the bank of the St. John River. Gorgeous, lush, multi-jewel-toned trees reflected on its surface as it coursed by. Scott joined me for a moment and pointed to a haunted looking, barren, very dead tree looming overhead.
“I’m surprised there are no eagles there today.”
“Eagles? As in BALD eagles?”
“Yeah, some days there are half-dozen up there.”
Now, as much as I love Canada, there is still a strong US root in me, and the national bird, the bald eagle, in California, is as elusive as electing a non-actor to government office.
Amy and I flipped like 6-year-olds on Red Bull. Scott’s words changed the whole purpose of our road trip for me. I HAD to get a picture of a bald eagle before I left. HAD TO. It’s like getting a picture of Big Foot, or a unicorn, or Britney Spears looking good.
The following afternoon, Haze and Bonnie offered to take Amy and I on a ‘bumble’. A bumble is N.B. speak for wandering-aimlessly-and-loving-every-minute-of-it. Haze promised we would constantly be on “eagle watch”, just for me.
And the day went, as we wandered to the top of hills, to the banks of streams, to covered wooden bridges and suspension bridges, but saw no eagles.
Until Amy and I drove away two days later.
But before Amy and I took fabulous photos through the sunroof of my car, we ate in a train car and saw three moose. More on that next time.
Twelve hours of driving in the rain brought us to Amy’s dear friends, Sara and Scott. Amy told me that they lived just across the road from the St. John River, but in that dark hour of midnight, she could have told me the entire cast of Heroes parties naked across the road and I couldn’t disagree. The sound of water rushing lazily past could have been an indication. But then again, who knows how hard the cast of Heroes parties?
Sara’s parents were in the driveway right behind us. We hadn’t made it into the house yet when we’d been hugged and greeted like long-lost relatives (the good kind). I knew then that we would have a good time, just as I knew that Sara’s parents, Haze and Bonnie, were my kind of people.
After Sara’s husband Scott had us settled, I relaxed as Amy fell into easy conversation with her friends, catching up on everything that had happened in the past 6 years, up to the past month, in which Sara, just 32, had opened her first restaurant in a train car.
Amy and I were both excited about the novelty of eating in a train car, and I had visions of Corner Gas characters with a Mel’s Diner type crowd to engage in some New Brunswick banter. too bad Amy wouldn’t understand the Corner Gas reference.
When Sara returned from her restaurant that first night, she brought with her four small bowls of something I now call Nirvana, but which Sara calls chocolate crème brule. After one bite of that unbelievable morsel of Heaven, Amy and I shared a look that said, “We will eat at this place before we leave, and do everything we can to kidnap the chef.”
Daylight brought stunning beauty. Once outside I walked about 40 feet and stood on the bank of the St. John River. Gorgeous, lush, multi-jewel-toned trees reflected on its surface as it coursed by. Scott joined me for a moment and pointed to a haunted looking, barren, very dead tree looming overhead.
“I’m surprised there are no eagles there today.”
“Eagles? As in BALD eagles?”
“Yeah, some days there are half-dozen up there.”
Now, as much as I love Canada, there is still a strong US root in me, and the national bird, the bald eagle, in California, is as elusive as electing a non-actor to government office.
Amy and I flipped like 6-year-olds on Red Bull. Scott’s words changed the whole purpose of our road trip for me. I HAD to get a picture of a bald eagle before I left. HAD TO. It’s like getting a picture of Big Foot, or a unicorn, or Britney Spears looking good.
The following afternoon, Haze and Bonnie offered to take Amy and I on a ‘bumble’. A bumble is N.B. speak for wandering-aimlessly-and-loving-every-minute-of-it. Haze promised we would constantly be on “eagle watch”, just for me.
And the day went, as we wandered to the top of hills, to the banks of streams, to covered wooden bridges and suspension bridges, but saw no eagles.
Until Amy and I drove away two days later.
But before Amy and I took fabulous photos through the sunroof of my car, we ate in a train car and saw three moose. More on that next time.
Saturday, 3 November 2007
From Carleton Place to Carleton County, No Really (Road trip, part 2).
A 9 Hour Drive in 12 Hours
Amy and I were determined. No amount of protesting loved ones gasping “you’re driving WHERE?” could dissuade Amy and I from taking another road trip (practically five minutes after arriving home from Syracuse), straight to Carleton County, New Brunswick.
After many debates over how far the drive actually is to New Brunswick, Amy and I decided that the drive would be great. Amy had never seen an east coast Canadian autumn, and I knew that the farther east we drove, the better the colours would be. And even if they weren’t, Amy would be able to visit a dear friend she hadn’t seen in more than six years (ironically, they met in Sweden 14 years ago). And finally, what girl can resist a road trip that doesn’t include work or daily responsibilities, other than maintaining the speed limit and watching out for wandering moose?
Saturday morning, we took off for New Brunswick. This girl has never driven outside the province without her beloved Canadian husband to show her the ropes, so having TWO California chicks wandering the wilds of Quebec made Amy and I feel like real explorers.
It didn’t take long for the excitement to wane. That Champlain Bridge in Montreal put a thick, wet blanket over our enthusiasm. After being stuck for 30 minutes, Amy offered to get out and walk and meet me in New Brunswick. Nice. But we muddled through it – and at least by being stuck in that traffic, I knew I was going the right way.
We had driving instructions from Yahoo maps. The problem was, everything on the map was in English, and everything in Quebec is French. As a matter of fact, the farther we travelled through Quebec, the more residents looked at us as if they’d never even heard the English language. Amy commented that if it were Spanish, we’d be okay, but even Spanish wouldn’t help much at that point.
We had many stops for drinks and road-trip treats, and our conversation turned from witty banter to wondering what all the road signs said. Referring to our Yahoo map (brought from California, by the way), all we knew is we needed a Highway 20.
When our concern grew to thinking that we may have missed the sign we couldn’t read anyway, we took the first turn-off to clumsily ask for directions in English. We found that we had turned off right onto highway 20. It’s a good thing too, or we might have had to accept the offer from two Rastafarians who were happy to accompany us on the rest of our trip to make sure we made it safely.
Before dark fell, Amy’s eyes were filled with the dazzling, unreal colours of autumn that whizzed by on either side of us. Watching her try to take pictures from her passenger seat as we cruised through Quebec at 120 – er – 80/90/100 (whatever the legal speed limit is there) clicks an hour was quite amusing, especially in the rain.
The largest disappointment on our trip to New Brunswick was that we never did meet Prudence the deer or Prudence the moose. The signs were everywhere that we should be watching for them, but they never did show their faces, until the trip home. Until next time. . .
Amy and I were determined. No amount of protesting loved ones gasping “you’re driving WHERE?” could dissuade Amy and I from taking another road trip (practically five minutes after arriving home from Syracuse), straight to Carleton County, New Brunswick.
After many debates over how far the drive actually is to New Brunswick, Amy and I decided that the drive would be great. Amy had never seen an east coast Canadian autumn, and I knew that the farther east we drove, the better the colours would be. And even if they weren’t, Amy would be able to visit a dear friend she hadn’t seen in more than six years (ironically, they met in Sweden 14 years ago). And finally, what girl can resist a road trip that doesn’t include work or daily responsibilities, other than maintaining the speed limit and watching out for wandering moose?
Saturday morning, we took off for New Brunswick. This girl has never driven outside the province without her beloved Canadian husband to show her the ropes, so having TWO California chicks wandering the wilds of Quebec made Amy and I feel like real explorers.
It didn’t take long for the excitement to wane. That Champlain Bridge in Montreal put a thick, wet blanket over our enthusiasm. After being stuck for 30 minutes, Amy offered to get out and walk and meet me in New Brunswick. Nice. But we muddled through it – and at least by being stuck in that traffic, I knew I was going the right way.
We had driving instructions from Yahoo maps. The problem was, everything on the map was in English, and everything in Quebec is French. As a matter of fact, the farther we travelled through Quebec, the more residents looked at us as if they’d never even heard the English language. Amy commented that if it were Spanish, we’d be okay, but even Spanish wouldn’t help much at that point.
We had many stops for drinks and road-trip treats, and our conversation turned from witty banter to wondering what all the road signs said. Referring to our Yahoo map (brought from California, by the way), all we knew is we needed a Highway 20.
When our concern grew to thinking that we may have missed the sign we couldn’t read anyway, we took the first turn-off to clumsily ask for directions in English. We found that we had turned off right onto highway 20. It’s a good thing too, or we might have had to accept the offer from two Rastafarians who were happy to accompany us on the rest of our trip to make sure we made it safely.
Before dark fell, Amy’s eyes were filled with the dazzling, unreal colours of autumn that whizzed by on either side of us. Watching her try to take pictures from her passenger seat as we cruised through Quebec at 120 – er – 80/90/100 (whatever the legal speed limit is there) clicks an hour was quite amusing, especially in the rain.
The largest disappointment on our trip to New Brunswick was that we never did meet Prudence the deer or Prudence the moose. The signs were everywhere that we should be watching for them, but they never did show their faces, until the trip home. Until next time. . .
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
From Carleton Place to Carleton County, A Road Trip in Three Parts
Cousin Amy was scheduled for a visit from California. To save loads of money, she decided to fly into Syracuse, New York. Not too bad of a drive to pick her up, but the rub was that her flight landed at 8:36 a.m. Which meant that I’d have to forgo my favourite thing in the world to go pick her up . . .sleep.
Figuring out that I’d have to wake up at about 3:15 a.m. to make it to Syracuse on time meant that I’d have to get to sleep really early the night before. Riiiiiiight. Yeah, like that could happen.
I’m one of those people that needs my sleep. So when I finally nodded off at just past 11, I knew I was going to be a sleepy driver at four a.m. Good thing coffee is available 24/7 in our town.
I was out of the house at 4:15 a.m. Peter thought I should allow myself plenty of time at the border, just in case there was a line up or something. I felt confident if not a little muzzy-headed as I pulled onto Highway 15 to make my way towards Brockville and the 401.
The complete darkness lent a surreal cast to my drive. It’s hard to describe the utter black and feeling that I was driving on a hamster wheel, not really getting anywhere. My headlights only cast so much light, and there are so many trees that when you’re sleep deprived like I was, things started looking a little bizarre. Like the sun would never come up, that the trees were chasing me, that I was really the only one on the road.
Yes, I needed to go back to bed.
Expecting a long wait at the border, I was quite surprised when I whizzed through, the only car out at that ridiculous hour.
When Amy finally arrived, my goofiness had already kicked in from lack of sleep. Of course, Amy had it over me. Her flight was so awful that she didn’t sleep at all, and they weren’t even nice enough to bring along her luggage.
When I asked Amy if she could fly into Ottawa next time, she said probably not.
“Why not? Don’t you think I deserve sleep?”
“If I landed in Ottawa I wouldn’t be able to eat at the Cracker Barrel.”
So guess where we went?
Amy is a very picky eater, and cheese is on the no-freakin’-way list. So when we ordered breakfast, she was distraught that the only hash browns available were in a cheesy hash brown casserole.
When the server arrived, I asked if we could get the hash brown casserole without the casserole. The server blinked a couple of times and replied “No, but I can make you some plain hash browns if you like.”
Good enough.
Bellies full, we stopped to fill up the car. I approached stress when I tried to stick the gas hose in my tank and it wouldn’t fit. Panic set in as I wondered aloud why American gas hoses don’t fit in my Canadian gas tank.
Amy leaned out the window and told me that I was trying to put diesel in my car. Oops.
Ten minutes of laughter later, we knew it was going to be a good trip.
Figuring out that I’d have to wake up at about 3:15 a.m. to make it to Syracuse on time meant that I’d have to get to sleep really early the night before. Riiiiiiight. Yeah, like that could happen.
I’m one of those people that needs my sleep. So when I finally nodded off at just past 11, I knew I was going to be a sleepy driver at four a.m. Good thing coffee is available 24/7 in our town.
I was out of the house at 4:15 a.m. Peter thought I should allow myself plenty of time at the border, just in case there was a line up or something. I felt confident if not a little muzzy-headed as I pulled onto Highway 15 to make my way towards Brockville and the 401.
The complete darkness lent a surreal cast to my drive. It’s hard to describe the utter black and feeling that I was driving on a hamster wheel, not really getting anywhere. My headlights only cast so much light, and there are so many trees that when you’re sleep deprived like I was, things started looking a little bizarre. Like the sun would never come up, that the trees were chasing me, that I was really the only one on the road.
Yes, I needed to go back to bed.
Expecting a long wait at the border, I was quite surprised when I whizzed through, the only car out at that ridiculous hour.
When Amy finally arrived, my goofiness had already kicked in from lack of sleep. Of course, Amy had it over me. Her flight was so awful that she didn’t sleep at all, and they weren’t even nice enough to bring along her luggage.
When I asked Amy if she could fly into Ottawa next time, she said probably not.
“Why not? Don’t you think I deserve sleep?”
“If I landed in Ottawa I wouldn’t be able to eat at the Cracker Barrel.”
So guess where we went?
Amy is a very picky eater, and cheese is on the no-freakin’-way list. So when we ordered breakfast, she was distraught that the only hash browns available were in a cheesy hash brown casserole.
When the server arrived, I asked if we could get the hash brown casserole without the casserole. The server blinked a couple of times and replied “No, but I can make you some plain hash browns if you like.”
Good enough.
Bellies full, we stopped to fill up the car. I approached stress when I tried to stick the gas hose in my tank and it wouldn’t fit. Panic set in as I wondered aloud why American gas hoses don’t fit in my Canadian gas tank.
Amy leaned out the window and told me that I was trying to put diesel in my car. Oops.
Ten minutes of laughter later, we knew it was going to be a good trip.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
Bug Free Hammock Lovin’
In the middle of summer, I stumbled across a heck of a deal on a double wide, traditional hammock. I snatched it up without thinking anything but MINE.
When I got home, Peter was less excited than I was. Probably because he remembered the last hammock I bought, and never used. In fact, that first hammock is hiding in the shed with the evil rake, probably working out a coup to get out of their bug-infested prison.
I knew Peter was flashing back on that hammock, and therefore couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the new one. He was remembering the broken drill bits and the many trips to the hardware store to get the ‘right’ equipment to hang it.
And here I was, happy to do it all over again with a REAL hammock.
After hearing a list of what I needed to do to get the new hammock up, I ran off to the hardware store and explained to a wide-eyed employee the exact equipment I needed to make this the most comfortable, most secure hammock hanging ever. He didn’t disappoint. Soon I was loaded with six feet of chain, two carabineers and two lethally long screw thingies with a circle in the end to secure the chain and hammock between the trees.
I convinced Peter to help me put the hammock up. I used tactics such as “how many more drill bits do you want me to break, and which ones should I use to prevent this?”
Boys and their tools. It’s so cute.
We got one end up. The second didn’t fare so well. We got the screw thingie in and managed to break it off, right in the tree, right at the most critical point. I was immediately defeated, and went back to the house to add ‘stronger screw thingies’ to my list. Memories of the first hammock shrouded me, and I swear I heard it giggle and blow a raspberry at me from the shed.
That was in July, and the hammock has only been up for two weeks. But what a great two weeks it has been.
Crawling on it, scooting to the perfect middle position, my head cradled at the top by the intelligent design of intertwined rope. Kicking off the ground and swinging my leg up, crossing at the ankles. How can anything be so perfectly comfortable?
I close my eyes, enjoying the soothing feel of rhythmic rocking, with nothing but the blowing leaves in the canopy above as my soundtrack. Fighting what would probably be one of the best naps of my life, I open my eyes to look to the sky.
And there’s a racoon, staring at me from a high branch.
“Hey, I thought you were nocturnal! What are you doing staring at me?”
Incomprehensible chatter answers my question before the critter disappears.
At that moment, I am glad that it took some time to put up my new favourite place. At this time of year, there are no bugs to send me screaming back to the house, and the only thing pesky are the leaves that are falling.
Sure, they are covering me at an alarming rate, but it’s a small price to pay for bug-free hammock lovin’. I’m sure Peter will come looking for me eventually, right?
When I got home, Peter was less excited than I was. Probably because he remembered the last hammock I bought, and never used. In fact, that first hammock is hiding in the shed with the evil rake, probably working out a coup to get out of their bug-infested prison.
I knew Peter was flashing back on that hammock, and therefore couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the new one. He was remembering the broken drill bits and the many trips to the hardware store to get the ‘right’ equipment to hang it.
And here I was, happy to do it all over again with a REAL hammock.
After hearing a list of what I needed to do to get the new hammock up, I ran off to the hardware store and explained to a wide-eyed employee the exact equipment I needed to make this the most comfortable, most secure hammock hanging ever. He didn’t disappoint. Soon I was loaded with six feet of chain, two carabineers and two lethally long screw thingies with a circle in the end to secure the chain and hammock between the trees.
I convinced Peter to help me put the hammock up. I used tactics such as “how many more drill bits do you want me to break, and which ones should I use to prevent this?”
Boys and their tools. It’s so cute.
We got one end up. The second didn’t fare so well. We got the screw thingie in and managed to break it off, right in the tree, right at the most critical point. I was immediately defeated, and went back to the house to add ‘stronger screw thingies’ to my list. Memories of the first hammock shrouded me, and I swear I heard it giggle and blow a raspberry at me from the shed.
That was in July, and the hammock has only been up for two weeks. But what a great two weeks it has been.
Crawling on it, scooting to the perfect middle position, my head cradled at the top by the intelligent design of intertwined rope. Kicking off the ground and swinging my leg up, crossing at the ankles. How can anything be so perfectly comfortable?
I close my eyes, enjoying the soothing feel of rhythmic rocking, with nothing but the blowing leaves in the canopy above as my soundtrack. Fighting what would probably be one of the best naps of my life, I open my eyes to look to the sky.
And there’s a racoon, staring at me from a high branch.
“Hey, I thought you were nocturnal! What are you doing staring at me?”
Incomprehensible chatter answers my question before the critter disappears.
At that moment, I am glad that it took some time to put up my new favourite place. At this time of year, there are no bugs to send me screaming back to the house, and the only thing pesky are the leaves that are falling.
Sure, they are covering me at an alarming rate, but it’s a small price to pay for bug-free hammock lovin’. I’m sure Peter will come looking for me eventually, right?
Friday, 5 October 2007
The Last Party of Summer, the First Party of Autumn
Last weekend, we hosted our 5th annual Autumn Equinox party. You could call it our way of partying away the last of summer, and thumbing our noses at the fall season and all the chores it brings.
The weather was perfect and the guests all arrived pretty much at the same time. Food was out and gone almost before the burgers and dogs were ready to serve, but we didn’t disappoint master barbeque chef Peter. We ate like the true carnivores we are.
Once our bellies were full, we women started loud demands in the general direction of the hunky men standing over the cooling barbeque. The demands are simple. Light the bonfire!
After evil growls that once meat has been consumed, the fire will be lit, we women wait patiently, standing in the kitchen, lamenting the ways of men in general. We giggle a lot and toss air kisses in their direction, secretly hoping that the bonfire is going to burst into crackling warm flames so we can move the party outside (and appropriately flash our glowing bracelets at one another).
We happenin’ chicks danced far from the fire, under the moon (completely clothed, it’s not THAT kind of equinox party), to the thump-thump beat of our own deejay, my Caliber with the drop- down party speakers.
We all danced like nobody was watching. And in the dark, all we could really see were the phosphorescent, multi-coloured glows of our bracelets as we twirled and shook our booties under an oak tree in our backyard.
As our wanton dancing faded and we gravitated towards the fire, a new atmosphere began to emerge. The music was turned off, and we gathered near the fire. Quick laughter replaced dancing, quips of “Who’s in charge of the fire? More wood! More wood!” took over the party, and we all started to mellow out.
Whether too soon or just at the right time, our guests took their leave. The fire was still pretty bright, so Peter and I decided to stay outside and enjoy it for a while.
And as it goes for so many couples that are completely at ease with each other, Peter and I lapsed into a comfortable silence, mesmerized by the popping wood and flames before us.
As I leaned my head on his shoulder, a sound travelled to us from deep in the forest that is our backyard. Coyotes. Their yip-yip barking and high-pitched howls greeted us, sending shivers down my spine and smiles across both of our faces.
We didn’t say a word, just sat, staring at the flames and listening to the wilds in the bush. And somehow, it was the perfect final stamp on the night. As if, maybe, the coyotes were thanking us.
For what? For turning off that loud music, of course.
The symphony of the wolves and coyotes out here is much better than the stuff we usually listen to. We just have to be quiet long enough to hear it.
Peter and I sat and listened to the forest and to each other without saying a word. It was beautiful and romantic as we snuggled close and enjoyed the song of Lanark County.
Parties are great, but sometimes communing with each other and nature is better.
The weather was perfect and the guests all arrived pretty much at the same time. Food was out and gone almost before the burgers and dogs were ready to serve, but we didn’t disappoint master barbeque chef Peter. We ate like the true carnivores we are.
Once our bellies were full, we women started loud demands in the general direction of the hunky men standing over the cooling barbeque. The demands are simple. Light the bonfire!
After evil growls that once meat has been consumed, the fire will be lit, we women wait patiently, standing in the kitchen, lamenting the ways of men in general. We giggle a lot and toss air kisses in their direction, secretly hoping that the bonfire is going to burst into crackling warm flames so we can move the party outside (and appropriately flash our glowing bracelets at one another).
We happenin’ chicks danced far from the fire, under the moon (completely clothed, it’s not THAT kind of equinox party), to the thump-thump beat of our own deejay, my Caliber with the drop- down party speakers.
We all danced like nobody was watching. And in the dark, all we could really see were the phosphorescent, multi-coloured glows of our bracelets as we twirled and shook our booties under an oak tree in our backyard.
As our wanton dancing faded and we gravitated towards the fire, a new atmosphere began to emerge. The music was turned off, and we gathered near the fire. Quick laughter replaced dancing, quips of “Who’s in charge of the fire? More wood! More wood!” took over the party, and we all started to mellow out.
Whether too soon or just at the right time, our guests took their leave. The fire was still pretty bright, so Peter and I decided to stay outside and enjoy it for a while.
And as it goes for so many couples that are completely at ease with each other, Peter and I lapsed into a comfortable silence, mesmerized by the popping wood and flames before us.
As I leaned my head on his shoulder, a sound travelled to us from deep in the forest that is our backyard. Coyotes. Their yip-yip barking and high-pitched howls greeted us, sending shivers down my spine and smiles across both of our faces.
We didn’t say a word, just sat, staring at the flames and listening to the wilds in the bush. And somehow, it was the perfect final stamp on the night. As if, maybe, the coyotes were thanking us.
For what? For turning off that loud music, of course.
The symphony of the wolves and coyotes out here is much better than the stuff we usually listen to. We just have to be quiet long enough to hear it.
Peter and I sat and listened to the forest and to each other without saying a word. It was beautiful and romantic as we snuggled close and enjoyed the song of Lanark County.
Parties are great, but sometimes communing with each other and nature is better.
Friday, 21 September 2007
World’s Strongest Yahoo.
You know where I stand on people watching. I love it like I love my pets. It’s fun and entertaining and you can always be assured of seeing something on or about a person that your eyes just won’t believe. Gotta love the county fair circuit.
Peter and I were selling candles at the Richmond Fair. Even though we were inside the curling arena, we could still hear the announcements coming at regular intervals over the tinny loudspeaker system. Well, you could hear them when the pig races weren’t running outside.
Saturday night, Peter heard an announcement that someone was going to be pulling a cement truck with a rope.
Not some THING, some ONE.
I heard snatches of conversation that referred to the ‘World’s Strongest Man’ competitors. Muscles and feats of strength? Someone pass me the smelling salts.
And we were going to be treated to our very own display. One man, one harness, one rope, one cement truck. Oh yeah, I was going to be in the front row.
At eight o’clock, the crowd began forming in two lines on either side of the cement truck. Peter and I were front and center.
Then he came. This muscled, tanned, tights-wearing strong guy strutted down the parted centre of the crowd, tossing souvenirs to screaming kids. The excitement was building. You could feel it as the cement truck driver climbed in the cab.
I secretly hoped Mister Strong Guy would have to move the truck when it was in ‘Park’, then I would be suitably impressed, but was told that the fun started in neutral on that big ol’ truck.
A huge rope was tethered to a small pickup truck. This was to be used as strong guy’s leverage to tow the cement truck from its seemingly mired position on the asphalt. I had doubts that baby was gonna move even one little ol’ inch.
Watching Mister Muscle had many of us women all a-twitter. He was really going to move that giant metal beast, all by his lonesome self? I could almost see the hankies being dropped as favours for our hero.
The tether rope tightened. Goose bumps popped out on my arms. Mister Muscle’s veins popped out in sharp contrast to his tanned skin as he gave a big holler and started to pull that cement mixing truck with every bit of strength he had.
The crowd started cheering. We all wanted him to do it, to be the strongest man in the . . . WAIT. What’s THIS? Who are those other two guys behind him on the harness? Why are they pulling the harness rope? Isn’t he supposed to do this alone?
As the truth became apparent to every woman watching, the cement truck moved forward a few inches. Mister Muscle still squirmed and sweated, but so did the guys helping him pull that truck. And the disappointment we all felt was almost overwhelming.
Though the men watching were quick to defend Mister Muscle, there were enough women that saw the same thing I did, while muttering things that Mister Muscle probably wouldn’t have appreciated.
Even in sharp disappointment, I loved watching the show. That Mister Muscle believes he can pull that truck is a testament to one thing.
He’s obviously got too much time on his hands.
Peter and I were selling candles at the Richmond Fair. Even though we were inside the curling arena, we could still hear the announcements coming at regular intervals over the tinny loudspeaker system. Well, you could hear them when the pig races weren’t running outside.
Saturday night, Peter heard an announcement that someone was going to be pulling a cement truck with a rope.
Not some THING, some ONE.
I heard snatches of conversation that referred to the ‘World’s Strongest Man’ competitors. Muscles and feats of strength? Someone pass me the smelling salts.
And we were going to be treated to our very own display. One man, one harness, one rope, one cement truck. Oh yeah, I was going to be in the front row.
At eight o’clock, the crowd began forming in two lines on either side of the cement truck. Peter and I were front and center.
Then he came. This muscled, tanned, tights-wearing strong guy strutted down the parted centre of the crowd, tossing souvenirs to screaming kids. The excitement was building. You could feel it as the cement truck driver climbed in the cab.
I secretly hoped Mister Strong Guy would have to move the truck when it was in ‘Park’, then I would be suitably impressed, but was told that the fun started in neutral on that big ol’ truck.
A huge rope was tethered to a small pickup truck. This was to be used as strong guy’s leverage to tow the cement truck from its seemingly mired position on the asphalt. I had doubts that baby was gonna move even one little ol’ inch.
Watching Mister Muscle had many of us women all a-twitter. He was really going to move that giant metal beast, all by his lonesome self? I could almost see the hankies being dropped as favours for our hero.
The tether rope tightened. Goose bumps popped out on my arms. Mister Muscle’s veins popped out in sharp contrast to his tanned skin as he gave a big holler and started to pull that cement mixing truck with every bit of strength he had.
The crowd started cheering. We all wanted him to do it, to be the strongest man in the . . . WAIT. What’s THIS? Who are those other two guys behind him on the harness? Why are they pulling the harness rope? Isn’t he supposed to do this alone?
As the truth became apparent to every woman watching, the cement truck moved forward a few inches. Mister Muscle still squirmed and sweated, but so did the guys helping him pull that truck. And the disappointment we all felt was almost overwhelming.
Though the men watching were quick to defend Mister Muscle, there were enough women that saw the same thing I did, while muttering things that Mister Muscle probably wouldn’t have appreciated.
Even in sharp disappointment, I loved watching the show. That Mister Muscle believes he can pull that truck is a testament to one thing.
He’s obviously got too much time on his hands.
Thursday, 13 September 2007
Virtual Reality Frogger
What is it about frogs and their overwhelming desire to crowd the roads after a summer rain?
Are they on some hari-kari mission of death? Don’t these frogs know that the swamp is not in the middle of the highway, the middle of my driveway, or the middle of our Lanark County country roads?
Last week, when we had some steamy storms blow through here, I was bringing Blondie home from work. Chihiro had come along for the ride. The sunroof was open and Blondie and I were singing a Timbaland song. Yes, that makes me cool to some teenagers.
When I punctuated my singing with “Aaaaaa! Frogger!”, Chihiro finally asked what I meant when I said that.
I explained to her about a video game from the 80’s, whose entire purpose was to get frogs across the road safely, before they were unceremoniously smooshed under the tires of a car. By the time she grasped the concept, we had turned onto our quiet road.
I explained that we get to live the Frogger game more often than we’d like to. “See all those white dots on the road in front of us? They are all frogs.” I stopped the car so Chihiro could lean forward and see. Blondie didn’t believe me at first, and Chihiro just wasn’t getting the full picture. After all, they just look like white dots on the wet pavement – their throats exposed and gleaming in the brightness of the car’s headlights.
And since I couldn’t prove the amount of frogs by pointing at them, I did the only logical thing I could do.
I got out of the car and walked to the first frog, expecting it to jump away in fright. Nothing. I stomped my foot at the frog. Again, nothing. I jumped up and down for a minute, and heard giggles coming from the open windows of the car. Darn frog wasn’t moving. I was losing my audience, so I bent down and pushed it with my finger. Finally, the frog jumped.
Squeals from Blondie and Chihiro rose in volume as I walked to the next frog and pushed it with my finger to get it off the road. Nine frogs later, I thought I’d cleared the immediate area. But frog number ten didn’t fare so well.
I made the sign of the cross over its poor froggy soul. Blondie and Chihiro were screaming with laughter. Looking further up the road, I shut my mind to the rest of the white dots. I couldn’t save them all, even though I’d much rather they croak in the forest instead of under the tires of my car.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, our girls were a little wary of stepping on a frog. Too bad the porch lights weren’t on. And it probably didn’t help much that I kept yelling ‘frogger!’ as they negotiated the dark pathway to the front door.
But again, their hysterical screams of laughter still made it a fun memory. Well, that and hearing Chihiro holler her own ‘Frogger!’ as she pointed to a frog on the lawn the next morning. Not quite the same concept, but our lovely Japanese friend was definitely getting the hang of it.
Are they on some hari-kari mission of death? Don’t these frogs know that the swamp is not in the middle of the highway, the middle of my driveway, or the middle of our Lanark County country roads?
Last week, when we had some steamy storms blow through here, I was bringing Blondie home from work. Chihiro had come along for the ride. The sunroof was open and Blondie and I were singing a Timbaland song. Yes, that makes me cool to some teenagers.
When I punctuated my singing with “Aaaaaa! Frogger!”, Chihiro finally asked what I meant when I said that.
I explained to her about a video game from the 80’s, whose entire purpose was to get frogs across the road safely, before they were unceremoniously smooshed under the tires of a car. By the time she grasped the concept, we had turned onto our quiet road.
I explained that we get to live the Frogger game more often than we’d like to. “See all those white dots on the road in front of us? They are all frogs.” I stopped the car so Chihiro could lean forward and see. Blondie didn’t believe me at first, and Chihiro just wasn’t getting the full picture. After all, they just look like white dots on the wet pavement – their throats exposed and gleaming in the brightness of the car’s headlights.
And since I couldn’t prove the amount of frogs by pointing at them, I did the only logical thing I could do.
I got out of the car and walked to the first frog, expecting it to jump away in fright. Nothing. I stomped my foot at the frog. Again, nothing. I jumped up and down for a minute, and heard giggles coming from the open windows of the car. Darn frog wasn’t moving. I was losing my audience, so I bent down and pushed it with my finger. Finally, the frog jumped.
Squeals from Blondie and Chihiro rose in volume as I walked to the next frog and pushed it with my finger to get it off the road. Nine frogs later, I thought I’d cleared the immediate area. But frog number ten didn’t fare so well.
I made the sign of the cross over its poor froggy soul. Blondie and Chihiro were screaming with laughter. Looking further up the road, I shut my mind to the rest of the white dots. I couldn’t save them all, even though I’d much rather they croak in the forest instead of under the tires of my car.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, our girls were a little wary of stepping on a frog. Too bad the porch lights weren’t on. And it probably didn’t help much that I kept yelling ‘frogger!’ as they negotiated the dark pathway to the front door.
But again, their hysterical screams of laughter still made it a fun memory. Well, that and hearing Chihiro holler her own ‘Frogger!’ as she pointed to a frog on the lawn the next morning. Not quite the same concept, but our lovely Japanese friend was definitely getting the hang of it.
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