 This morning felt different, like a veil had been lifted. I slept a little longer than usual and woke up in a pain free body. Some back pain that had been plaguing me for a few days was noticeably gone. The sun had already crossed up over the horizon and I had no desire to listen to the news.
Instead, I put some music on. I do this fairly often but today it was the only thing that made sense. The absence of pain after days of aching were cause for celebration - not negativity on the airwaves. As I get older, I celebrate in ways that don’t include alcohol or loud parties (thank gawd), and I decided I would eat soft boiled eggs with toast fingers instead of oatmeal whilst listening to John Barry’s movie soundtrack from Out of Africa. I was in the mood for some magic and a bit of decadent gooey cholesterol laden saturated fat. (YOLO). It wasn’t long, in fact, only half way through my first perfectly cooked farm fresh egg, when the show began. I can see across the bay from my seat at our table and as though keeping time with the rising notes of the string orchestra, this truly majestic local bald eagle soared gracefully past the tree tops lining the shore, followed almost immediately by four Trumpeter Swans gliding by in a graceful chorus line of snow white, like avian angels on a Sunday morning flypast. Martha Graham couldn’t have choreographed the moment any better. The westward bound swans disappeared but the eagle continued to entertain me through the second egg and last bit of my homemade spelt toast smothered in Chili Sauce as though he wanted to make my breakfast even more pleasurable than it already was, considering my rare departure from oatmeal laden with chia seeds and wild blueberries that are pretty much the norm around here. As the music played on in the background of my “Wild Kingdom” moment, it got me to thinking how many other magical moments have occurred in tandem with this particular album. It has been a favourite for many years. Sunday mornings seem particularly apropos for this collection. It accompanied many coffees by the fire in my Deep Cove living room while watching passing sailboats heading up Indian Arm in North Vancouver. It soothed my labour pains while giving birth to my only child in 1994. It has competed for centre stage with noisy Kookaburras and Sulphur-crested Cockatoos on steamy Queensland mornings on the patio. Occasionally my Mick will take me for a slow romantic spin on the kitchen floor when “Let the Rest of the World Go By” plays and I am transported to Kenya with Karen Von Blixen and Denys Finch-Hatten - their heartbreaking story of great love and tragedy filling my own heart to bursting. How can a simple collection of musical compositions seem to turn an ordinary morning into such profound and joyous capsules of love and beauty? There is only one answer. Magic. Simple. Pure. Magic.
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 I felt the rage first. Then the sadness. I leaned over the edge of my raised garden bed/boat and examined the wound. It didn’t look fatal but could do her in. She was lining up to be my prize winning butternut squash this year. A squat and exceptionally plump beauty. She had been basking in the sunniest part of the patch for a good month already and still had time to fatten up a little more as she was starting to take on a light tan before harvesting, come September.
I quickly glanced toward the others. The other fourteen. Yes, I had counted them. It was going to be a brilliant yield considering they were growing in a boat. It started out as an experiment in 2018. Why not use old boats as garden beds? We had moved to our cottage permanently and we faced problems with critters. Ground hogs. Chipmunks. Foxes. But…mostly DEER. Having been a city gardener for most of my life, this was a whole new challenge here on our two acre plot of land in Rideau Lakes. Attracted by a couple of gnarly ancient apple trees that came with the place, the local white-tailed population had been coming here for years and now they were thrilled to find so many more tantalizing and delicious items on the menu. The idea for the boats seemed logical as they were like giant planters with a nautical flair we reckoned. They suited the landscape and lakeside location and were no longer seaworthy so we added a few more drainage holes and lined the bottoms with bales of hay, topped that layer with composted soil and planted them up. They served well as a barrier to ground hogs but the chipmunks, squirrels and deer still had easy access to these veggie vessels. In the spring, after planting, we wrapped netting around the edges and planted rows of onions along the sides as we read that deer don’t like certain aromas like garlic or lavender or other strong smelling plants. They apparently also find textured or fuzzy leaves distasteful. So, it was surprising to see that not only had they taken a few bites out of my best butternut baby, they had devoured many of the leaves surrounding her as well. These are leaves that my old weathered hands find irritating - surely a mouthful of sandpaper-like foliage couldn’t possibly appeal. Alas, I was wrong. The evening before, I had seen three does hovering near the squash filled boat. I didn’t hesitate and ran down the drive, arms flailing, flinging fallen apples along the way toward them to distract them. “Eat these!, I shouted, “Get away from my Squash!” It wasn’t the first time they had encountered my “mad woman on a mission” approach and it was taking more and more aggressive posturing on my part as the weeks passed to get them to run off. I needed a new plan. The netting had been removed once the plants were established and had started to escape the confines of the boat and most of the fertilized squash were draping over the edges and lying on the ground next to it like bumpers used for docking. The large leaves acted as protection and hid the bulbous beauties but now they were slowly being revealed and Bambi and her crew were salivating at the edge of the forest and waiting for nightfall. I had no choice but to unravel the stowed away netting and erect it once again. Now, you may be wondering why I would bother spending so much time and energy trying to save fifteen butternut squash. Have you seen the price of them in the grocery stores lately? One day I nearly fell over at the check-out when the price of one passed the ten dollar threshold. Even if half of mine were worth ten bucks a piece, I would only be looking at a little over a hundred dollars worth of veggies. So, that is really not the only reason. The real motivation behind my extreme measures to save these squash is similar to the way we nurture any new life. I grew these from seed. Organic seed. I know the soil I planted them in. I fed them organically. I used my precious well water on them when there wasn’t enough rain water. I checked on their progress daily. I weeded and cultivated the surrounding soil. I dreamt of the Butternut Squash Soup and the Garlicky Roasted Chunks and the Autumn display on the dining table at Thanksgiving. I floated the bright yellow blossoms in my bird baths all summer. I attempted Stuffed Squash Blossoms for lunch one day ( bit of a disaster-but now I know). I sprinkled lavender and sage and spent marigold deadheads around the edges almost daily. I hand-painted red eyes on duct tape and stuck them on wood and hid them amongst the foliage and illuminated them with a solar light at night (another apparent “deer”terrent). I boasted about my copious crop to my brother (and fellow gardener) on the west coast each time we spoke, and, the piece de resistance…I made my partner pee in a jug in his workshop and sprinkle it around the boat at dusk to fool them into believing danger was close at hand. (Coyote pee supposedly works but I wasn’t up to collecting that.) None of it worked. My temptation to install an electric fence was almost greater than my compassion for all animals. I had to draw the line somewhere. So, as of this morning, there is the resurrected netting and some extra chicken wire around a group of seven that are sort of huddled together which I have now named Happy, Grumpy, Dopey…I mean Harris, Varley, Jackson, Johnston, Lismer, Casson and Carmichael. We’re Canadian after all and this is no fairy tale.  The passing of Canada’s legendary Gordon Lightfoot has had a profound effect on so many as we mourn the loss of one of our (babyboomer) generation’s musical geniuses. I have been contemplating my own personal memories of his music for a couple of days now. The power of his lyrics were undeniable but for me it was more than that - it was life changing.
My first husband was a huge fan of his music. Until I met him, I was a fan but not to the degree he was. As the few short years of our marriage played out, I grew to appreciate Lightfoot’s music more and more as his albums were often gracing our turntable on rainy weekends. It wasn’t surprising then, that I bought tickets to see him at Massey Hall in the late 80’s to see him perform live. A birthday present. It was the perfect gift…or so I thought. Long ago memories can be blurry but I have never forgotten the feeling that overcame me that night as I sat next to my then husband. If ever there was a sense of foreboding, it was the moment Lightfoot started singing “If You Could Read My Mind”. It was as though I knew months ahead what was coming. As the lyrics filled the concert hall - “I don’t know where we went wrong, but the feelings gone and I just can’t get it back.”. As much as I wanted to deny what my intuition was telling me, I knew our marriage was on it’s last legs. As we both sat listening to that song, this gigantic elephant in the room was sitting on both our hearts and when the concert was over, the walk to the car was silent. We didn’t talk about the show. It was as though we were both afraid to talk lest the words neither of us needed or wanted to say were ready to leave our lips. It wasn’t the right moment. It was raining. It was a late October night in Toronto - cold and wet - a foreshadowing of the months to come as our marriage unraveled week by week. I wonder how many broken hearts have been made feel unrepairable as they listened to that song? The enormous angst associated with those lyrics is immeasurable. Isn’t that what all great art can do? It just knocks you over with a feather. Did Gord write those lyrics with someone in mind in his own life? Turns out, he had. It was one of his most personal songs written about his failing first marriage. All I know is that I cannot hear that song all these years later without thinking of my own first failed marriage, a memory as ancient as those old albums we played on that turntable. Did his heart ache every time he performed it? How could it not? My life is filled with memories and the songs that accompanied them. A similar scenario occurred toward the end of my second marriage. Different artist. Different song. This time it was a road trip to South Carolina. The song was on a mixed tape I had made for the drive. (remember those?) This time was different in that I was the one that had “lost the feeling”. As Nelly Furtado’s voice filled the car, I could feel tears welling up. I had to look out the passenger window, my head turned so he couldn’t see my obvious distress. “Now our love’s floating out the window, our love’s floating out the back door.” I glanced over at him to see if the lyrics were registering with him at all but it seemed I was the only one who was relating to the song. This time it was me who would do the leaving. It didn’t make it any easier. I guess this is not so much a tribute to Gordon Lightfoot as it is a proclamation about the power of music and well written lyrics to imprint memories on our hearts and minds that stand the test of time and become ingrained into the fabric of who we are and where we came from and how our lives have unfolded individually and collectively for millennia. As for me, and my path to the here and now, let’s just say I am glad to report that Mick and I consider “At Last” to be “our song”. I am hopeful “Third time’s the charm.” AT LAST - written by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren At last My love has come along My lonely days are over And life is like a song Oh yeah yeah At last The skies above are blue My heart was wrapped up in clover The night I looked at you I found a dream, that I could speak to A dream that I can call my own I found a thrill to press my cheek to A thrill that I have never known Oh yeah yeah You smiled, you smiled Oh and then the spell was cast And here we are in heaven For you are mine... At Last  We do it to ourselves really, don't we? Just when you think you have achieved or perfected something and are happy with the method used or the result, you take the bait. You see the headline or the tag line and instead of just continuing to scroll you click on it.
The dreaded click. After all, why wouldn't you want to strike a better yoga pose, or bake a better cake or take a better photograph, or have a more mind-blowing orgasm, or be a better parent, or get more from your meditation practice, or have the most organized closet...or, or, or. These are the continuous subliminal messages that flog us daily. Clearly the way you are doing it is not good enough. It's not fast enough or slow enough, or intense enough or tasty enough. It applies to our work, our relationships, our hobbies, our cooking, our possessions, our homes, our travel destinations, our skill at just about anything. Let's face it, none of us are good enough at anything. There is always a better way. As much as I can see through these admonishments intellectually, there is still a latent curiosity to have a quick peak to see if maybe, just maybe I could change things up a bit to improve upon what I already thought was pretty good. It is almost as though you need to see if the difference between how you do it already and how someone else does it is just a matter of a quick and easy tweak that will elevate whatever it is to some sort of Nirvana. Not content with a simple bowl of hot oatmeal with cream and brown sugar like your mom always made you, no worries, make it like this and turn your morning bowl of gruel into a foodgasm. It diminishes your reality. That's what it does. Just when you think you have found the perfect little black dress, the September issue of Vogue poo poo's your choice. Think you have a wonderful loving and harmonious relationship? Look there - Sting and Trudie Styler practice Tantric sex and have the perfect house to boot! It's enough to make you stop the madness and just unplug altogether. Turn off the devices and put an end to the constant reminders that you can and should be and do better. The truth is, we can always improve because none of us are perfect. But do we really need to bother? And what is it that drives us to try? Why is perfection a goal at all, because even those who seem to achieve it in some area of their life often find it does not make them happy. The list of celebrities that we have at one time or another viewed as having achieved the perfect lives and then blew it all up in some way is endless. Think Robin Williams for instance, whose tragic departure from our world almost a year ago still saddens and perplexes us. So talented. So loved. So fortunate. So dead. I had my own interesting discovery last week. My first boyfriend and first love who I had, until last week, thought had it all - or so it seemed. I knew he had married the girl who came into his life after me, they had financial success, three children who were privileged to attend the best schools, a nice home and a summer cottage. I was happy for him. It seemed he had the happily ever after we all want. As I scrolled my Facebook feed I noticed a woman with a hyphenated name - hers and his. Hmmm, that was odd. I dug a little further and sure enough it turned out his perfect marriage ended some time around 2007. Sigh. One more fairy tale life bites the dust. It does seem that they have both gone on to re-marry and give it another go - maybe this time they will find that elusive perfect relationship. Maybe not. The key for them and for all of us really may be to not expect perfection. Just wake up each morning and be grateful for how it is, and how they are and be thankful to be alive and perfectly imperfect. As much as I have come to find Dr. Phil annoying, he did have a couple of great ideas when it came to relationships. One thing he used to say that I have never forgotten had something to do with asking yourself "What can I do to make my partner's life easier today?". The other thing he used to say was "How much fun are you to live with?" I think those two simple ideas are really effective. It prompts giving and introspection. And those two activities alone could be enough to achieve happily ever after as long as both partners participate. And on that note, I am going to the kitchen to make a pot of soup. Not the most mind-blowing, foodgasmic, gourmet's dream crock of hot nectar of the gods. Just a simple, nutritious, tasty pot of goodness, the way I have made it many times before. A "clean out the crisper" soup that will be less than perfect, but more than adequate. A "good enough" soup. Good enough for me.  Who are you redbird- sitting on a limb A long lost loved one- or dear departed friend You keep coming back to see me- every now and then Who are you redbird- sitting on a limb? -Lyrics by Beth Husband and Milan Miller Since we got back to Kyeema North, I have been waiting and wondering when I would get a visit from a Cardinal. We do see them here, but there aren’t as many Cardinals flitting about as there are Blue Jays or Robins for instance, so when I do see one it excites me every time.
There is wonderful folklore associated with Cardinals or other red birds. Some people view a visit from a Cardinal as a sign from a loved one that has passed and that their spirit is still alive. It is considered a happy event - one that can uplift you from feelings of sadness or loneliness as though the departed are letting you know they are OK. Since my friend Mary passed away last month, I have been hoping for a visit from a red bird. I have seen a couple flying while out driving, but none have actually come and perched nearby. When Mick’s mother passed a few years back, it wasn’t long before we had such a visitation. We were out on our morning walk and a pair of Cardinals - a male and female flew across our path at eye level and landed in a nearby tree. I turned to him and said, “Look, it’s your mum and dad letting us know they are together again.” It was a bittersweet moment for both of us and even the non-believer in us had a hard time imagining it wasn’t some sort of divine message from the other side. I like to think it was a moment of mystery and magic that allowed us to pause and allow for some tears of grief to flow. Maybe we needed a nudge and it worked. Now that I have admitted that I am open to such myths and often interpret coincidence and synchronicity as potential messages I am meant to hear and understand, I want to examine what happened this morning. As most of you are aware, I also lost my father in February. So, I have been half expecting a red bird visit on his behalf as well. The thing is, I’m not sure I want to hear from him. For sixty five years I had a love/hate relationship with him. There isn’t another human in this world that could push my buttons the way he did. I won’t speak ill of him here, but I will say, I won’t miss him. For the first time in my life I am free of his impact on me and I don’t think I have settled into this new found freedom yet. In fact, I think I have been avoiding thinking too deeply about it at all. It’s like having a brand new novel on your bedside table, one you’ve been really excited to read, but you haven’t cracked it open yet because you know once you do, you will dive so deep into it, it will consume you for days. I’m not ready to dive in yet. What happened this morning was like a bit of an epiphany. I had a red bird visit and I am certain is wasn’t Mary. I am thinking it might just have been my father though. It wasn’t an ordinary visit. Far from it. This beautiful brilliant male Cardinal appeared in front of the house as we stepped out for our morning walk. He wasn’t flying past, or perched on a limb of the apple tree. No, this red bird was laying on the gravel in the driveway…dead. Both Mick and I were devastated. We have had plenty of other birds die after hitting a window on the house but never a Cardinal. We were sick over it. Normally we toss the unfortunate bird bodies into the woods and let nature take its course but we did not have it in us to allow this handsome fellow to rot in the bush, so we buried him under our special five-fingered tree. It was far more dignified and I was touched by Mick’s suggestion we treat this colourful fine feathered friend with the respect he deserved. After we buried him we set off on our walk. We were silent - both lost in our own thoughts about what had just happened. Had this red bird just delivered a powerful message to me? Had this Cardinal flown full speed into my house like a suicide bomber to make sure I got the message? Was this my father’s way of communicating something I needed to hear? By now I was convinced it was him and definitely not my friend Mary. Mary had appeared inadvertently I now realized a few days ago when I was cleaning out my desk drawer. I had forgotten I had saved a beautiful card with an image of a cardinal (pictured above here). I took it out of the drawer and it now sits on my window sill above my desk, giving me joy each time I look at him and that is something Mary would want for me. Something pretty to look at while I am writing. No, this dead bird was my father alright. Aggressive. Reckless. Loud. Flashy. Self destructive. Doomed. And now dead. What was I to make of this final dramatic appearance? Well, this is what I would like to think. He got to the other side where suddenly he was able to see how he had affected everyone back here on this earthly plane. He was finally able to see how his fiery temper and abusive words and actions had harmed the people he purported to love and he needed me to see that he couldn’t hurt me anymore. He needed to show me it was over. He knew a live appearance would not convey what he wanted to say. He had one last shot to relay what he only now realized I needed to hear. It was an apology. It was suddenly so obvious to me. I could almost imagine him taking off, his wings flapping faster and faster, his black beady bird eyes squinting, full of tears that were evaporating in the cold morning air as he headed toward my window to make one last attempt to get my attention. What better way than to offer his life? To crash into my house and my heart, and say “I am so sorry Deb. Please forgive me.” Since he has been gone, an odd sense of calm has enveloped me. I will never again need to defend myself against him. Not physically, but emotionally. All his trigger pulling days are done. I don’t need to hold on to all that anger anymore. As many times as I thought I had come to terms with him, forgiven him, pitied him, diminished his influence over me - I had never really been able to shake him off entirely. He had never acknowledged any wrong-doing. His inability to see his role was always clouded. He never took responsibility for his actions. But now he came back under the guise of this poor bird, knowing I would get it. He had to die so I could fully live. Perhaps this is less of an ending and more of a beginning. We’re all free now. My mother, my brother and me. He will no longer be the centre of most of our conversations. None of us will ever have to walk around on eggshells again. His demands on our time and patience have come to an end. He is out of his misery and at last, so are we. I do like the idea that his avian representative is now safely buried under our favourite tree here at Kyeema North, just in case I ever do feel the need to talk to him (or at him), especially knowing he can’t talk back. At the very least, he will be close enough to watch the rest of my life unfold from a safe distance, and all I can say about that is… Watch me dad, watch me finally fly free.  Whilst I was gallivanting around Australia the last three months ticking off a few bucket list items, two significant people in my life were back in Canada running out of time for such frivolities. To say I am not sloshing around a murky puddle of guilt would be an understatement. I was having fun while these two were preparing to meet their maker and there is nothing fair about that, no matter how much I try to justify my moments of awe and wonder with their battles against disease and pain. I thought I would be home in time to see them both again, but my risky bet proved a losing proposition. I half expected to lose my father while I was away. It was a miracle he lasted as long as he did and his death was expected. But my friend Mary? That was not supposed to happen. I found out about her illness just before I left in December but I assumed (wrongly) that she would not go as quickly as she did. For her sake, I am glad she did not suffer for long, but for my sake (my selfish sake), I am crestfallen that she didn’t wait for me. We became friends through work in 2009 and remained friends after I left the company in 2012. She was perhaps the spunkiest woman I had ever worked with. She was fearless of authority - her fiery Irish roots and snappy retorts were legend and she did not suffer fools gladly. I loved her for that. At the same time she could waltz through a room with elegance and style like no other. She had done some modelling in her younger years and it had served her well. She never appeared rushed and even when she was stressed it never presented outside her calm demeanor, her gait like that of a graceful gazelle. Despite her appearance, she had plenty going on inside that she mostly kept to herself. Once she got to know me, however, she began to share details of her life with me and that is when I became more and more impressed with this woman who shared an office space with me. She was perhaps the most giving, generous, nurturing woman I have ever known. Her devotion to her siblings and nieces and nephews went above and beyond what most would consider too much. She had no children of her own, but she cared for her family as fiercely as she might have her own offspring. I daresay, I am quite sure I could never live up to her in this regard, should life ever throw so many challenges my way. It was to be admired. Mary arrived in my life at a time when things were pretty topsy turvy. She helped me through some very difficult weeks, months and years when I faced separation, major moves, career changes, family strife and more. Through it all she was one of my biggest cheerleaders, always there to lend an ear, a hug and moral support. Not much phased her and she had this Florence Nightingale-like bedside manner and ability to just roll up her sleeves and get on with it like it came naturally to her. I will never forget one incident in particular when she came to my rescue at work. This story may not be for the squeamish, but I am going to tell it anyway. I was presenting a design plan to some clients one day at work when I suddenly realized I was beginning to hemorrhage. I excused myself from the meeting and Mary met me in the hallway on the way to the ladies room. She could see at once that I was in trouble. She took me by the arm, led me inside and just went into action. She sat me down, said “don’t move, I’ll be right back.” She went and explained to my clients that I had a family emergency and had to leave immediately. She returned to me and said, “take off your skirt” as blood had seeped through my clothing. She filled the basin with water and started to rinse my skirt and my hosiery, while I was busy trying to stop the bleeding. She never flinched. It was as though she had been through this sort of thing a million times. I was utterly mortified and embarrassed and she was cool as a cucumber. She then got my coat, laid towels on the seat of her car and took me home. She did all the explaining to my boss and then followed up after work to make sure I didn’t need to be hospitalized. Her care giving skills were stellar. She was my heroine that day and it crystallized our friendship going forward. In addition to the quality of her care giving, she was a talented interior and landscape designer. We shared a love of both so it was no surprise we often bounced ideas off one another and had a common bond that drew us together from the start. When Mick and I bought our beloved Kyeema North, her enthusiasm for our “cottage style decor” sparked a steady stream of kitschy gifts from her own home that she thought would be “perfect” for our new nest. Now, when I see one of Mary’s thoughtful donations to Kyeema North, I cannot help but pause and think of her - grateful for the times we did share here. I’ll treasure these bits and pieces that once belonged to her - a vintage hand-painted biscuit tin that I use to store ginger snaps, a pair of binoculars in a weathered leather case that we use daily to view the wildlife out our windows, yellow irises she divided from her garden and now grow in mine - all these things daily reminders of her generous and thoughtful nature. When Mick and I were separated between Canada and Australia in 2020 due to Covid, Mary went to bat for us calling upon a close friend in Manhattan who knew people in high places that might be able to pull some strings for us between the two countries. She was determined to see us re-united, government policies be damned! She really wanted to help despite the odds. Never a gal to sit back and hope for the best, she always fought for fairness and she wasn’t shy about stepping into the ring for her friends. I met her shortly after she lost her mother and over the years, I watched as she faced more losses than most could endure in a decade. Two brothers, a sister, a brother-in-law and her beloved dog Keira. I watched as she voluntarily raised her sister’s two children through the tumultuous teen years. She did all this on her own with no support from a partner. How would she have time for one? She was too busy caring for everyone else. I admired her strength and resilience time and time again. It was astonishing. She found solace in her well-tended garden (pictured above). When I learned how she spent her days off; on her hands and knees getting dirt under her manicured fingernails, I knew we had the love of creating beautiful outdoor spaces in common. As any gardener will tell you, it’s the best form of therapy and I am certain it was where she dealt with the constant onslaught of grief she had to face over the years. She had just sold her house and was winding down her career when cancer came calling. She had been thinking about a trip to Ireland to explore her roots and an adventure to Costa Rica to investigate retirement living. It just guts me to think of how her dreams for the future were snatched from her and if there is a life beyond the one we know here, I hope Mary is lounging on a spacious terrace filled with tropical foliage and Birds of Paradise, sipping a cool drink, enjoying a stunning view of the vast ocean surrounded by the family who has gone before her - I think she would like that. I will sorely miss my feisty Irish friend. Gone far too soon.  R.I.P. Mary Elizabeth Gahan 1954-2023
 Views have always been high on my list when choosing living spaces over the course my life. Fancy kitchens and baths are nice but give me a pretty view and I will gladly overlook a dated faucet or wall to wall carpet. Those things can be changed once I move in. But the scene out my kitchen window as I stand to wash the dishes or peel my carrots is more difficult to alter after the fact.
It doesn’t have to be a grand sweeping panorama of rivers or mountains but it does have to have some connection to nature. I would positively wither in an inner city apartment with nothing to look at but the brick wall across the alley or a washing line with some tattered underwear flapping in the smoggy breeze. It is the first thing I notice upon entering any space and I immediately gravitate toward the windows and doors to see what I will be subjected to on the daily. I suffer from a bit of claustrophobia and perhaps this has something to do with my obsession to see an escape route from the walls that surround me - who knows? What I do know is that it has a significant impact on my mood. How many times have I checked into a hotel room, marched toward the window, thrown the drapes open and felt either relief or dismay over what I could see? If it is pleasing, I want to stay longer and if it is pitiful, I can’t wait to check out. I am one of those people who will pay extra for the water view when I am feeling cashed up and fret about what I will have to face when I don’t. I always feel elated when these rolls of the dice work in my favour. My current view is what one might call a small “city” garden outlook. Compared to our views in our home at Kyeema North, one might say there is really no view at all. It has been many years since I have spent any extended period of time in a densely populated neighbourhood where the houses all have tiny back yards that are fenced and only allow glimpses of the surrounding rooftops from the ground level. Many of the homes in this older part of town have built additions onto their homes, leaving almost no green space whatsoever for a garden. When standing on the second floor here to look out over the block, we see evidence of this everywhere. Some have cleverly left a small courtyard in the middle of their compound-like alterations but some have no yard at all. Having gotten used to the space I live in currently, it has taken me by surprise how much I miss it, even in winter. However, I do appreciate that I am avoiding the cold weather in Canada and I suppose there is some advantage to not having to shovel and plow snow on our long driveway. As much as I wish I could see the nearby lake from this house, at least I know I can walk a short two blocks and walk around the beautiful trail that loops 6km around the entire thing. It is the centrepiece of this town. As I sit and write about my current living space here in Ballarat, I am happy to say that I am looking out a wall of windows onto a tall, fully blossoming patch of crimson and candy pink Hollyhocks. Are they not one of the most brilliant happy flowers in a summer garden? A breeze is blowing this morning and they are swaying about, threatening to bend beyond their capacity. I just watched as a Pallid Cuckoo landed on a stem, clearly thinking it was stronger than it was, and dipped and bounced up and down like a too heavy diver on a springboard. Out another window to my right, I can see a plot of 5 slender lemon yellow Calla Lilies stretching their elegant champagne flute-like cups toward the sky as they have spent the last week emerging from clumps of spotted leaf bouquets as though they have left their mother’s wombs and bolted for the heavens. A tree in the corner of this garden stands fat, bulbous and upright. A young Baobob (aka Boab) tree that was leafless when we arrived and has since sprouted a head full of slender pale green leaves proving it is indeed alive and well - just a deciduous tree that must be a late bloomer, not unlike our Rose of Sharon in Canada. The first time I had a Rose of Sharon in one of my gardens in Ontario, I wondered if it was ever going to come back to life after winter and it was June before it finally showed me some leaf growth. The Baobab must be similar. In front of the Baobab is a small garden pond that the owners had installed and one of our jobs is to feed the fish in addition to the dog. Most of the time the small goldfish remain hidden beneath the lily pads and other plant life in the two-tiered water feature, but when we sprinkle the nourishing fish flakes twice per week on the surface of the water, they waste no time at all coming to gobble them up like hungry sharks. I enjoy this twice weekly event. The plump little swimmers seem to be of varying sizes and some are two-toned tangerine and creamy white. Their eagerness to gorge themselves on these seemingly sparse meals reminds me of feeding a baby when they are particularly hungry, their little mouths opening rapidly between bites of their favourite pureed pears. And like a satisfied infant after a good feed and ready to nap, they disappear back to the bottom of the pond to savour their supper in the cooler water. The homeowners said we were welcome to do what we liked with the garden, so of course, I couldn’t help but yank a few weeds, repot a few things and plant some tomatoes, basil and peas (there was an empty trellis) that will likely not start to produce much before we leave but will give me something to nurture while I’m here and a bit of bounty for the couple that live here when they return from their vacation. I also filled a couple of empty plant pots with some colourful annuals that should also be peaking at about the same time. As the garden is fairly newly planted, there are some young citrus trees, a lemon, a lime and one mystery tree. Lucky for us, because one night, I needed some fresh lime juice for my recipe and was able to step out the back door and pick one of the two limes that were ripe. That was a first. Tree to table in under a minute! Over our back fence, I can see a mature lemon tree in the neighbour’s garden and there are lots of lemons ready to be picked. I am gathering up my nerve to ask for a couple, as the constant tease of them being just out of reach is driving me mad. I keep waiting to see the owner in the yard one day, but so far, no such meeting has occurred. This “bonus” gardening season is a plus for sure. I have access to fresh rosemary, cilantro, parsley, basil, oregano and mint. The mint was growing in a pot and I made the mistake of moving it early on. It had begun to root through to the ground from the drainage hole in the bottom of the pot and it has punished me for doing so ever since. It has struggled to flourish disconnected from the ground and is looking a bit sad but I will continue to water and feed and talk to it and nurse it back to health. I was surprised it reacted so badly to the move but I suppose we all take time to adjust to a new home, don’t we? Despite the lack of an expansive view, I have managed to find little pockets of beauty here in this city plot of land, and had an opportunity to add a wee bit more. Good enough to keep my green thumb from fading too much before spring in Canada.  When we lived on the edge of town in a neighbourhood called Granville adjacent to Maryborough, Queensland it was not uncommon to see kangaroos on the footpath in front of our house as we sipped our morning coffee. In fact, one breezy sunny morning as I was busy hanging laundry in our back yard on the Hill’s Hoist, I turned to dip into my basket of damp towels and underthings to come face to face with a large female who seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her. All I could think to say was “G’Day!” She had clearly come up our drive before I had come out the back door and found herself trapped by our back fence behind the pool.
She likely did not expect to see a human on her way back out to the street and the bush beyond. I loved living so close to them. There were no houses across the road from us. The gum trees and scrub made for a wonderful hiding place for them on scorching hot days and our green, grassy turf in the wetter seasons made a perfect spot for them to graze early in the morning or late in the evenings. It was like living in a wildlife refuge without any of the maintenance. We were serenaded by laughing Kookaburras at the crack of dawn and the same group (or “riot” of them) would mark the end of each day with their cackling chorus. It wasn’t long before I came to realize that our close association with all things wild and wonderful in Australia was not a daily experience for the majority of the population that lived in the large coastal cities like Brisbane, Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, Darwin and Perth. A trip to Melbourne in 2015 was an eyeopener in this regard. I took a holiday with my son who was visiting at the time and we did a few typically touristy things. We booked a tour to Phillip Island to see the fairy penguins in their natural habitat. These adorable creatures return from the sea after dark each night to return to their hillside burrows and we had the great privilege to watch them from a distance on our outing. But that’s not what opened my eyes. As we journeyed on the bus with the tour group, the very informative bus driver pointed out various landmarks and was happy to answer questions. One passenger inquired if we would be seeing any kangaroos along the way, aside from the ones we were scheduled to see in a wildlife park along the way. We were going to be hand-feeding them and also getting to pose with sleepy Koalas. I personally am not a fan of animals in captivity so this was not going to be the highlight of this tour for me, but I reconciled that it might be a memorable activity for my son and it was included in the price of the “Fairy Penguin Adventure”. I listened carefully to this bus driver who had a bit of a “know it all” air about him. He laughed at the question and said, “Oh no, you won’t be seeing any roos in the wild. That is a bit of a myth.” It took all my reserve to not call him out on this. What the hell could he possibly mean by this? I nearly stood up from my seat and corrected him, but then I stopped myself. He had not personally ever seen any in the wild so he assumed it wasn’t possible. Perhaps the furthest he had ever travelled was between Melbourne and the road to Phillip Island. It was doubtful he had ever been to rural Queensland. I best not embarrass the poor uninformed man. It did sadden me a bit to think that this bus load of tourists from around the world now had their hopes dashed of seeing Skippy and his mates hopping about outside the confines of a zoo, when I knew the exact opposite to be true. This leads me to the whole point of this story. Since we have arrived in Victoria, I have yet to see a kangaroo (other than 2 dead ones along the roadside) in the wild. I thought perhaps we might see some on the train from Melbourne to Ballarat as we were leaving the big city heading through rural areas to a smaller place. But Ballarat is 4-5 times the size of our beloved Maryborough/Granville for starters. We would have to venture further I reckoned to reconnect with Kanga and Roo. After three weeks in our home away from home and several countryside road trips, we still haven’t found our elusive symbols of this great land down under. I do believe we are getting closer and closer (2 dead ones after all), but to date, nothing. It got me to thinking. Isn’t life curious? For the nearly eight years we lived amongst these fascinating creatures, I took them for granted. They were part of my daily experience. I took hundreds and hundreds of photos of them. I talked to them. I drove carefully after dark through my neighbourhood for fear of hitting one with my car. I avoided stepping in Roo Poo on my daily walks. I was thrilled to be able to show visitors our mobs of kangaroos-many with adorable joeys peeking out of their mother’s pouches. This is what Australia was like for me. But it is not what this country is like for most Australians. And now, we experience deer on our property in Canada in the same way. They are a part of our life just as the roos were in Queensland. It is not to be taken for granted. I realize this now. It is not common. The majority of the world’s population may never know what it is like to share space with wild animals. It is a perk of living in small towns and/or rural areas. A priceless perk. Last evening we enjoyed a Pond to Plate event at a farm about 30 minutes drive from where we are staying in Ballarat. I asked one of the farm hands if there were many kangaroos around the 1500 acre property and he said no. Another surprise. Then I mentioned I had yet to hear or see any Kookaburras since arriving in Victoria and did they have any around the farm? Again he shrugged his shoulders and said no, but we might see some roos when we drove through a place called Creswick on our way home later. I was suddenly excited by the prospect of finally seeing my old mates on the drive at dusk. Surely the timing would be perfect. As we approached Creswick, I wiggled a bit sideways in my car seat and rolled the window down. I was so determined after my three week roo drought to catch a glimpse that I didn’t let the strangling seat belt annoy me too much. I asked Mick to drive slower. With no one behind us, that was possible. I scanned the roadside as though spotting a Kangaroo would win me a sheep station. A few odd shaped stumps and the odd shadowy shrub jump started my cortisol levels from time to time, but alas, as we left Creswick and the 5KM warning signs for possible kangaroo crossings in our dust, I had to placate myself with one (in the words of Elmer Fudd) “wascily wabbit” siting, a few magpies, some screechy long-billed corellas and some common crows sitting on fence posts. Hmmff. And so, my search for Skippy’s in Victoria will go on. I remain hopeful.  For many years when my life revolved around raising my son, Christmas was a big deal at my house. One might go so far as to say, my decking of the halls and pre-Xmas preparation was somewhat over the top. Nostalgia and melancholy seemed to arrive the moment I flipped the wall calendar from November to December. Memories of my own childhood Christmases would fuel my frenzy of decorating and shopping and I was one of those radio listeners that actually liked it when my station of choice started playing nothing but sappy seasonal tunes 24/7. (that was hard to admit).
It was easy to justify my obsessive Christmas fervour when I had a little one I wanted to experience the magic of flying reindeers and the miracle of a fat white-bearded man in a red suit that could slide down our chimney in the night while he slept. One year in particular stands out in my mind. The year I succeeded in making that magic believable. As I stood in our living room on Christmas morning, video camera in hand, watching my little 5 year old come down the stairs of our old house in Toronto, he stopped halfway down. From there, he could see the tree next to the fireplace and he gasped and shouted up to his father who was still in bed…”Dad, come quick!” he shouted. His face was lit up as bright as the star on top of our tree and then he added, as he scanned the abundance of gifts under the tree, “I must have been REALLY good!” Wanting to repeat that same sense of awe and wonder in successive years, I continued with my “full on” Christmases well into his teens. He is 28 now and I often wonder if his memories of our small family festive seasons will ever lead him to one day create his own version of that magic. For now, he is childless and likely content to slide past the holiday season with friends his own age doing whatever young unmarrieds do together, interspersed with a visit to his dad and a visit to me. He does still put in a request for the chocolate coconut macaroons I made every year when he was a kid, but he does not seem to have inherited his mother’s passion for the perfect Christmas, and honestly, I hope he never does. I was a maniac - driven by my perfectionist tendencies like a possessed Elf Queen, spurred on by the likes of Martha Stewart and her “good things”. No fake trees for me. No blow-up snowmen on my lawn. I did succumb to a four foot high plastic vintage looking Santa that lit up one year when my boy was 5 but he wasn’t standing on the porch or the lawn - oh no - he was fastened to our roof, reinforcing the myth of his pending arrival on Christmas Eve, marking his landing spot. Reindeer food was placed on the dining table before bed - a carrot, some celery and a couple of homemade short bread cookies for Santa and a glass of milk. Come morning, nothing remained but a few crumbs, a wilted carrot top and an empty glass with a faint imprint of Santa’s bottom lip on the glass. Bloody magic. As Christmas 2022 approaches, I still crank on Nat King Cole and get all nostalgic thinking about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. That one never gets old. My father was particularly fond of Elvis Presley’s Blue Christmas but my son and I latched on to the Vince Guaraldi Trio’s Charlie Brown Christmas as “our” beloved choice to launch the season and then put on repeat for the month of December. There was other music we grew to love and we once even cried in the car together listening to The Christmas Shoes by NewSong the year it was released. The annual trip to see grandparents wasn’t complete without hearing Driving Home for Christmas by Chris Rea. But that was then and I am not that gal anymore. Maybe I overdosed. I can still take the bait, but now, instead of taking it all the way down my gullet, I nibble at it. Thirty minutes of Kenny G’s Miracles album and then back to Van Morrison lest I get too nostalgic for the past. My years of tropical Christmas seasons in Australia and a child who grew up took the wind out my sentimental sails, probably for the good. One can only strive for perfection for so long before the cracks in the Christmas cake become crevasses. I take my Decembers with fewer egg nogs and a couple hundred less twinkling lights now. If there is a petition out there campaigning for the reduction of Christmas from yearly to once every two or three years, I will be the first to sign it. Do we really need to embark on this journey of crass commercialism EVERY year? I am not exactly a Scrooge or Grinch now but I wouldn’t mind a break from it now and then. So, considering these views, I had been somewhat begrudgingly doing some decking of the halls here at Kyeema North, spurred on by an early snowfall in November and a bit of fun making snowmen when I got an email out of the blue from a woman in Australia wondering if Mick and I would be interested in doing a two month dog/housesit. Mick had hauled the 3 Christmas bins down off the high shelves in the garage the day before and a few holiday baubles had started making their way into the house. I had planted up an Amaryllis in a pot timed to bloom by Dec 25th. Two poinsettias were already gracing the sideboard and coffee table. I was hemming and hawing about whether or not we would chop down our own tree this year since my boy was not coming and it seemed like too much work considering, and that’s when we looked at each other and said - “Should we?” Was this “our” Christmas miracle this year? Was I getting my wish without even having signed a petition? Was an email from a stranger like the bell ringing in A Wonderful Life? Was the angel getting it’s wings comparable to a Qantas jet flying over the Pacific from Canada to Australia? Had our two snowmen, Frosty and Billy Bong headed down under, clearing the way for us? Were we meant to go and find them? Yes! Yes and Yes! What else could it be? The magic of Christmas, just came to me! I’ve halted the decking and baking, the ribbons and bows, Started the planning and packing, and painting of toes. There’ll be no Christmas of White, no chopping of trees, just the warm summer sun on my face and my knees. No need for St Nick to land on our roof or bring gifts at all, we’ll just wish him well with a long distance call. We’ll ring in the New Year from a house way down under, where warm balmy breezes will sure make us wonder - What were we thinking as it got colder and colder, we weren’t getting younger, Just older and older? We’ll miss the smell of spruce and pine, while we sip that fine Australian wine. So Happy Christmas to you and to yours May you all get the wish on your own Christmas list.  Copper Road
Please don’t leave, O’ burnished ridge of mine I’m not ready. Give me more gold or ruby rust, both equally valuable To me anyway And you, overripe raspberry, disguised as Sumac My heart is clotted with your intense bloody hue Linger longer I plead silently. This morning, the rising sun came piercing through the black trunks turning the dim road into copper. Glistening shards, blinding streaks, demanding my attention, and I gave it, and it awed me. You’re irresistible and you know it. Show off! Same time next year, you shout. I know…but your cruel tease of time between visits between orgies of colour that can penetrate souls - It’s too long. How else can I describe you? Dazzling deciduous forests, mile after mile, lining bogs, tracing hills, mingled with spruce, pine and cedar. Evergreen and cerulean sky; your complimentary partners, like humble undergarments beneath your jewelled cloaks. Your perfume - aahhh, that familiar scent. A memory - I’m four Penny loafers, clicking and swishing through leafy carpets, pockets heavy with shiny mahogany chestnuts for show and tell Nostrils damp, wafts of cool earth and decay, foreshadow the frigid future, that comes after goblins and ghosts have knocked on doors By All Saints Day, you’ll be gone and melancholy will settle over me like November fog blankets the bay that is missing the loons. They gathered, cried and vanished. Much like you did. I’ll have to settle for ducks now. Quacking substitutes. Hunter’s targets. Last hurrahs, Final flourishes, Bittersweet goodbyes. You’re all of these. Can you tell you are my favourite? Is it obvious how much I adore you? Oh, doomed season… Oh, Autumn. |
DEBunked.I see nature as a metaphor for life. Please join me on this journey down the garden path as I explore life through story - a shovel in one hand and a camera in the other. Archives
May 2023
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