My friend Robin posted a picture of Shaver Lake in California during its winter splendour. I miss Shaver . . .where you could leave the snow behind after playing for a while. . . here is what some days in winter can be like in Lanark County, Ontario.
Bet it looks a little different from when some of you visited, right?
Getting those couple of inches of snow last week really put a grump in my step. My plumber stood on my porch and denied climate change as a mixture of snow and rain pelted him in the face. Peter had just secured a firewood order and we were beginning to think about the upcoming season. But when that snow flew – there was no joy. It was still October. SO not ready for it.
And I don’t care if it’s snowed in October before. Doesn’t make it right.
I don't care how pretty it was. Don’t care that it made me stop and look out my back door, wondering how the snow so perfectly coats all the branches of every tree in perfect icy, sparkling frosting.
Maybe my crankiness about the snow was all Cousin Amy’s fault. Amy sent me a text message with a picture of the thermometer in her parents' backyard, the same day we were being snowed upon. The temperature that day in Fresno, California? Seventy-eight degrees. At 7 o’clock at night.
The Facebook status of another friend in Sacramento? I’m tired of wearing shorts, bring on some rain already!
But then the snow melted, and I realized I don't mind winter all that much, because nature does some pretty cool stuff to get ready for the season.
Just about everything is gettin' furry. Driving down the roads of our Lanark County, all the horses are getting those thick patches of winter fur. They may look a little shaggy, but for animals that always have a such a sleek, glistening appearance, I rather like the stuffed-animal makeover of horses in the colder months.
And there on highway 7 – driving between Napoleon and Highway 29 in Carleton Place, are where the shaggy cows live. Anyone that’s ever been on Highway 7 more than once knows of which shaggy cows I speak. Of course, if you’re a farmer, you probably know the actual breed name of these animals. But to us simple-minded folk –they are beautiful, shaggy cows. And they’re getting shaggier.
My yard is totally furry with leaves. I know - they should be raked. But I believe in composting and I had my rake committed last fall for intent to do bodily injury.
The cat and dog aren't shedding quite as much. Wick, the cat, seems to have put on a pound of fur in a matter of one week, and it just makes her belly that much more irresistible as she struggles away from our loving hands. Cats. Sigh.
We're all getting our own layer of winter fur on, as well. Heavier coats, warm, furry-lined boots, gloves and hats. Fuzzy sweaters, socks and scarves are all starting to make an appearance.
Some women will shave less. And really, what's the big, hairy deal? Men grow beards during the hockey season, so let's just say that's what we - I mean, some women - will do as well! Besides, it's an extra layer of warmth, and after a short time, like your manly, oh-so-sexy facial hair, our feminine-soft-and-silky leg hair will feel the same.
And maybe, just maybe, you won't have to hear us - I mean, some women - whine as much about how cold we - er - they are.
Getting furry in the cold months is part of the natural order of things. So let’s all get soft and furry, and stay warm. Maybe then it won’t bother me – um, I mean other people so much when the s**w really hits.
I’ve told everyone of my plant-killing prowess. You also know that I have a gorgeous orchid that is just two weeks from its one-year-blooming anniversary. I even found myself offering orchid advice to a friend at the gym. It’s laughable, really.
But there is one flower in my sunny garden that absolutely takes my breath away, and all I did was put a root in the dirt and add some water.
Just one flower.
It is the most unbelievable colour of red. The darkest of blood, the brightest red of a rose, the passionate colour of love, anger, fire.
And it’s all in one flower.
It’s a dahlia, and looking at it gives my thoughts flight (like I need a catalyst).
My only question . . . how?
How is this particular flower this colour, this shape? Have you ever thought about it? How many different types of flowers there are, how many colours, varieties, shapes. . . like people, I can’t imagine any two flowers are exactly alike.
I wonder if this brilliant bloom has a spirit of its own. I wonder if, being a living thing, it knows what a beauty it is. Does it know from the time it is a tiny sprout, still in the dirt, that its petals will open to show the perfectly shaped array of flames from a fiery red sun? Does it know that its colour would make a rose wilt in shame? Does it bloom in humility, knowing it’s beautiful but keeping quiet about it?
Or does it bloom a little wider, a little more every time I walk by and stop to gaze at it?
Ironically, I believe the insects feel the same about this amazing bloom. In just less than an hour since I’d gazed at the perfect dahlia last, an insect had been given his last rites and was already 6-feet . . .-up.
My dahlia could not be considered an insect cemetery, no matter how heaven-like it must appear to any part of the critter kingdom.
So I flicked it out and it pinged off the rain barrel.
The human eye is always drawn to what it perceives as attractive, beautiful or covetous (no matter how wrong the latter is, we are still human after all). And there I was, looking at one silly flower and wishing for its beauty? No, I don’t want to be a flower. But I do want this flower to thrive and stay forever, that’s how much beauty I see in one bloom.
I guess this gives new meaning to the words “stop and smell the flowers” (roses, whatever).
But alas, there is one flaw with my perfect flower when I do stop to smell. In nature’s way of balancing, this flower is barely scented. My dahlia can’t kick the rose’s bootie in every category, can it?
While this flower blooms, I will gaze on it and let my mind wander, wondering about the mysteries of this gorgeous creation. I will wonder if the blooms that are waiting to open will be as breathtaking.
And I will wonder one more thing. . . what if the flower just wants to grow up to be a tree?
It boggles the mind.
Because they are still alive.
Yes, me, the blackest thumb in all the universe has been duped by the four plants in my house.
It started with one. One stupendously gorgeous orchid that was given to me last year on my birthday by my mother-in-law (thank you!).
When the florist delivered the orchid plant, huge, flowering like nobody’s business and all pretty and purple, I thought she had the wrong address.
But it was my birthday, and there was a flower delivery. I was in awe of the orchid. They really are amazing flowers. I wouldn’t accept it from the delivery person. “Is that for me?”
“Are you Joyce Men. . . Men-y. . . “ She struggled to read my last name. I saved her.
“Yes I’m Joyce. But. . . I kill plants. Why is this one here?”
“Um. It’s a gift.”
I snapped out of it. My terror for the sure black death of that gorgeous orchid had me a little stupid for a moment.
“But, what - I mean, where should I put it?”
The florist delivery person must have felt sorry for me. She kept the plant and asked me to show her any sunny windows in my house.
She eyed the corner window in the dining room where an empty ceramic table sat. “That window is perfect.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her (or the orchid) that the only reason the table was empty is because I’d recently given the last rites to an unfortunate tropical plant.
She placed the orchid on the table. She looked at me, direct in the eye, as if in warning. “Don’t move the orchid from this window. . .ever.”
I almost saluted. Then she pointed out something else that was included in the gift. A book. Easy Orchid Care. Well I’ll be. My mother-in-law did remember that I kill plants with regularity. How sweet that she believed in me enough to include instructions!
So the orchid stayed there in that corner of the dining room, soaking up the sun. I read that book.
It’s almost one year later and my orchid is STILL blooming. It’s never gone dormant. The flowers just keep coming. I follow the instructions in that fabulous little book and my orchid loves me. It’s truly amazing.
But the scary part? I’ve branched out. I found some amazing violet plants with huge, vibrant blooms. I put a bigger table in the corner to accommodate all FOUR plants.
That was three weeks ago.
They’re still alive.
Shhhhhh. Don’t gasp too loud. They might hear you.
Apparently, there is some kind of magic mojo in that dining room window. Plants love it. I’ve tried moving one outside for more sun, into the shade when it looks a little droopy. Nothing makes this plant happier than sharing the table with the orchid. It perks its little leaves up towards the orchid every time its near it, and gets droopy when it’s away from its girlfriend.
Yes, I’m convinced. The only reason my plants live is because they are all in love with the beautiful orchid. There’s some kind of plant love-fest going on and the orchid is the puppet-master.
No. I’m not moving the plants. Let the magic of the window and the orchid live on, even if the success does scare me, just a little.
It gives me too much hope, and I'll probably end up killing hordes of helpless plants because of the small success I am experiencing.
Pray for me, people.
I love living in the wilds of Lanark County. I love the trees, the wide open sky and the amazing glittery carpet of stars at night. I especially love the critters, as long as they don’t want to suck my blood.
However, as much as I love the critters (Peter, too- we often will stand by the windows and watch them go by), apparently we don’t love them as much as our tabby, Wick.
I’ve told Wick stories before, and they always seem to start with . . . there was this really strange noise . . . you know, the kind of noise that registers in the cacophony of every-day sounds as not normal?
So there was this really strange nature noise that had me standing up to look out my office window. And what do I see? A fat white wild turkey running helter-skelter down the driveway with Wick in hot pursuit, her legs flying like the fastest cheetah.
I wish I could have seen it from the beginning. I imagine it would have been Wick, thinking to herself that whatever it was she was watching was the biggest thing she would ever try to tackle (besides the dog or me). I imagine she became a mighty huntress, stalking through our too-tall grass, crouched low to the ground, her tail swishing in dangerous arcs, her eyes wide, pupils dilated. She is no longer a house cat, she’s the mighty lioness, ready to bring down the meanest wildebeest on the plains of the Serengeti.
But, of course, all I got to see was the white wobble of the turkey and Wick’s rapid chase. By the time I screamed at Peter to come see, I was laughing and the frightened bird and our mighty cat were gone, only ghosts of dust clouds remaining.
Seriously, what in the world would she do with a turkey if she caught it? Would she expect me to serve it up with some stuffing and gravy? If she’d managed to drag that thing back, I would have served it on a silver platter to her. But the turkey managed to get away.
When the deer munch near our crab apple tree, Wick lays in the branches above or at their feet. I wonder if she provides the dinner conversation?
So there was this really strange noise, this time out the back bedroom door. I crawled out of bed and opened the drape, much to Peter’s dismay. It was kind of early on Saturday morning.
But that danged Woody Woodpecker was back, his full head of red feathers swaying in time with his loud hammering on our birch tree. The woodpecker was a full foot tall, and quite beautiful.
But what did Wick see?
Snack.
So she’s at the base of the tree, and the woodpecker stops hammering and starts bellowing at the cat, six feet below.
Peter didn’t want the woodpecker on the tree anyway, so he started egging her on, telling her to get that nasty woodpecker.
It’s not like she could have caught the bird, but she sure shot up that tree fast enough, accompanied by the ‘good girl!’ shouts from both of us.
You’ve got to love the chutzpah of our little Wick. She dreams big, and she goes after her dreams. I guess we could all learn a lesson or two from our pets, couldn’t we?
Maybe, but I won’t be climbing trees or chasing wild turkeys anytime soon. And the deer? They can have the apples, thankyouverymuch.
I'm sure Wick will let them know when she's had enough.
Hello my friends!
Just returned from a fabulous weekend with Fluffy. We went to watch our friend Jocelyn's daughter Jillian compete with her Kingston Elite Senior Cheerleading Squad at the Canadian National Competition at the Hershey Centre in Toronto.
We also stayed at Adena Springs North, where Fluffy's brother is the farm manager. That picture in the middle? The stables.
It was a horse lover's paradise, almost like a personal heaven, located in Aurora, Ontario. Click on the picture below to check out some of the types of thoroughbred racehorses I drooled over all weekend.
Bed-time now - check back often! I'm trying to write more!
Happy Hump Day! Tomorrow I will post my column from this week's paper. How are you all liking my new blog activity?