Six Decades: Part III - Slightly Sidetracked

I was filled with such great expectations!

By dickens, I was going to explore the pros and cons and ins and outs and ups and downs of how I got to be ME. Here and now.
But what I found happening as I edged ever nearer the precipice of the age that shall not define me is that I didn't really feel like I had a lot to share of earth shaking significance. At least nothing that would change your world. Of course, lots has changed mine, constantly and perpetually, world without end.
But right after the last installment I stalled. (And I went to New York City- we all need a little NYC.)

And after walking for hours in Gotham, my feet begged me to pay attention. I had no choice but to submit. And so now it's time to confess that I have a foot fetish.

Not the kind that makes you think of quirky high heels, slightly sleazy, I feel queazy, let me nibble your toes stuff. No, not the fun stuff.  But the  "at 16 years old I had a bi-lateral bunyon-ectomy" stuff. And yes, it's appropriate for you to think, "What?"
What it means is I had bunyons removed from both sides of both feet because they had impeded my abililty to pedal - and I saw a podiatrist.  He said I needed to have the surgery, or I would be a "cripple" by the time I was 40. Today, and everyday since this operation, the doctor remains politically incorrect and I have been fine, and so have my feet, thank you very much.
The most outstanding outcome of the event (other than a life long love affair with foot rubs) is that it took place 2 weeks before I was due to enrol at university and  check in at the residence at University of Guelph.

And so begins Chapter the Next.

I'm 16 years old. Early acceptance for spring admission to University...time to get there...
My feet are wrapped in cotton bandages, many times around each foot, protecting surgical incisions that excised bone, and were stitched together, a total of 296 times, equally shared left side, right side, left foot, right foot.
Protecting this mass of bio-hazard bandaging, were 2 very attractive green garbage bags. One per foot.
And so I arrived on campus for the very first time and  entered the U of G residence, with my Mom and my sister Jane.
"Hi!" We said to the group of guys standing in the entrance hall.
"Hellllloooo!" Funny Big Guy said, " What floor are you on?"
"Uh, top floor  -6th I think? Is there an elevator? 'Cuz, uh, I can't walk just now..?"
"Well", said FBG, "that's not a problem!" That guy over there will take your trunk up to your room, via the elevator, and YOU, little lady , will just hop on board my back. Hie yup!"
And -there is not one false word in this testimony- he hitched me onto his back, and I rode him up to the 6th floor of U of G residence, with Mom and Jane following behind to catch me if he fell.
Now, THAT's a first day of school.Colour me lucky and rub my feet!

Six Decades: Part B

And so we moved to Canada's capital. I silently sobbed from Lloydminster to Lashburn, my father's birthplace, and a distance of about 25 miles, and then I   just couldn't sustain the sadness for the loss of my first love anymore. I was, after all, moving to Ottawa, the capital of Canada! Totally exotic and beyond any pre-conceived, not conceived, and any other -eived
notions. Ottawa had big department stores  and skyscrapers. For a child of the prairies, this was heady stuff. Oh. Ya. It was also the capital of Canaduh...what-evvv-errr.

We arrived in early summer - time enough to get enroled in school -advancing a year to accommodate the fact that the prairie system only took 12 years, but in Ontario, kids needed an extra year to learn everything . Who knows? And 50 years later? I don't care. I got to skip a  grade.

And all of a sudden I was a big city kid, knowing absolutely no one  and in high school. I learned very quickly how absolutely alone one can feel in the middle of 1000 people.  And immediately on the heels of that lesson, I learned that the creepy term "Peeping Tom" was rooted in reality. As in someone was in our backyard, staring at me sleeping, night after night. CrapandshitI'mscared!

So big city living meant that this whack job (WJ) liked to look through the bedroom windows of teen-aged girls. I discovered this thanks to the next door neighbour's dog, whose barking woke me one night. In the morning we discovered that pervert WJ had dragged cement cinder blocks under my window.  The next time it was huge sawed off tree stump,  and then later a cement sewer conduit...all under my bedroom window, so he could stand on the peeping aide and watch. Me. Sleep. I was 13. 

I won't drag this particularly tawdry incident out. The police were called, stake outs were set up...did I say I had to act as bait one night?  I did.
But he was in fact caught just down the road from our home, on a ladder, peeping into the 2nd story window of a blonde 14  year old.
I don't know if he ever went to jail, or court, or even received much more than a reprimand. I hope so.

I know when I hit "publish" I will be sharing this incident with friends, acquaintances, and a few strangers. I've decided, after much consideration,  that I'm okay with that.

So, my first year in Ottawa was interesting to be sure,and  I think that experience may have influenced me in some ways.

Ed...to be continued

Six Decades: Part I

This particular birthday has been bothering me a lot over the past while. Ever since other friends, acquaintances, colleagues, et “all” have been hitting this milestone, and many in spectacular ways.

Some have sailed gracefully into the seventh realm...taking pictures of themselves dancing; sitting on mountain tops; eating unpronounceable foods in faraway places; building new homes on remote islands; walking ancient trails; being with original friends from long, long ago; setting new standards, new rules, new lives.

Me?

I survived. And I’m alive. Not famous in the big magazine sense of the word, but the local newspaper has  reported alot of stuff I’ve said and done over the past 12 years  in an official capacity for the City for which I work. And I printed one copy of my blog, http://www.susansgonetothebirds.blogspot.com when I achieved 5000 readers status. So now I own a 476 page soft-bound book that I did, indeed, write. One book.   One copy. No sales yet.  

At 60, (well, 59 yrs, 355 days) I can say with certainty, that I have never really fit in. I have very early memories, at less than 2 years old where my Mom was handing me to the sitter, arm cradle to arm cradle and I didn’t want to be passed off.  Collectively, they almost dropped the struggling Susan, but, again, collectively, they managed not to.

I remember potty training too. Amazing really...sitting on a little robin’s egg blue, tin-enamel pot in my parent’s bedroom, when the sitter came barging in and insisted that I stop, and put my diaper back on! I clearly understood that  she didn’t want to have to deal with baby Sue’s shit poo, and really? Who can blame her?

In grade 7, at Lloydminster Junior High School, several things happened all at once on a sultry June night in 1963. I was awarded a whack of medals for scholarly aptitude, and athletic aptitude, and dramatic aptitude..clean sweep and heady stuff for a 12 year old girl who really just wanted to kiss a guy and Lynn Brown in particular.

First Kiss: 12 years old, in the back of a car (that his older brother was driving), flying 80 miles an hour towards Sandy Beach, with the moonlight casting shadows from behind. I watched as his head leaned towards my head, and we both turned, and my knees melted, and ... is  it any wonder that my parents decided it was time to get their 3 pubescent daughters out of this small town?!

I think, re-reading what I’ve just written, that this is as good a place to pause as any. Not sure where this journey is leading me, but most assuredly, we’re on a little journey.

...to be continued

Just Singin' the Loonie Tunes

If you live in Canada, you will know the call of the Loon

and you will likely have been told by scolding old school marm-aladies

not to mimic their call especially in the spring

when they are calling for their marm-amates.

Like this."ohhhhhwaaaaallaahooahhhhhh" or something remotely similar.

Loons are right up there in Canadian iconism with beavers 

and Mounties

and Justin Bieber.

How a 16 year old kid from Stratford can take the teenage world by storm

is beyond me. (Obviously, as I never did it.)

But, gasp, I just don't get it.

(Sorry, Justin.)

So now I know that I have crossed the line.

I'm old.

And you're not.

That your handlers want you to sound like an American ghetto kid from wherever it is your newly acquired accent comes from,

in order to attract more and more teenage angsters is,

of course, their right.

And yours, too.

I just happen to think it's all a tad loonie.

A bit of a scam...the art of persuasion,

the machine in motion and the tail wagging the dog  puppy.

 This just in.

I just shared.

Just like you're doing

 on all the tv talk shows.

And to quote a wood burnt sign that used to hang at the ye old family cottage,

"Ve get too soon oldt, and too late schmart.

Just in time

for y'all  to think about.

Spin Cycle

In the background is a peppy little voice cheerfully chattering  about the nautical look, and how we can now take it the office. As she burbles away, I stare at this nautical look, and I wish I could. But I don't think that's what the etalk hostess means. This spring has been so long coming, that now that it's here, I find myself slightly off kilter. Not quite in focus and a bit soft.

Like dawn on the river. It holds me spellbound as I count hundreds, no thousands of ducks and geese, gathering, gabbing, gobbling, and going on their way. I sit and wonder where they have been. Where they will be tomorrow. I want to know their unknowable journeys. I want their promises to return. Again and again.

Like violets, and daffodils.

The cheery greeting I am given upon arrival is worth the long winter's wait.

And I smile, happy that they're so...so relentlessly yellow! 

They wink and nod with the spirit of spring.

Like little red squirrels who have waited for months to scold someone.

Anyone. Me.

Like a tightly coiled furry little spring, he can't stop moving. Or chirping.

"I'm alive! I'm alive! You are too! What are you doing? Where are the peanuts?

Get the nuts! I'm alive! I'm starving here! Hurray! Hurry.

No, don't stop. Don't look at the birds. I know they're cute. So am I!

Okay, one little look... Hurry!" 

How can one look just once?

This place has me on spin cycle.

I love Spring.

I'm alive.

Down By the Old Mill Stream

My Mom and Dad were pretty "Hip to the Jive", as they used to say. And they had this huge collection of LP's (Ed. note: gentle reader born after 1980, you may have to look this one up) to prove it. There were the Mills Brothers,  Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, The Lemmon Sisters, and many other collections of albums, including some by the Langevin Symphonette Society- the precursor to elevator music....or Muzak, as it's known amidst the  mad men. Musak is actually a patented type of music delivery system for elevators, department and grocery stores. Shoppers, it has been proven, buy more when there is perky, cheerful music to shop by. And they fight less when a funeral dirge is droning in the background of the outdoor stadium as the losing hometeam exits. On the same note, it is also why municipalities often play opera outdoors and illuminate an area with zit highlighting black light to deter teenagers from hanging out late at night.
But, I digress.
Back to the old mills, brothers.
On a recent country drive, looking for signs of spring, we took the road less travelled, and followed a local area map to Burnt Bridge Road. It is always, to me, a bit of a shock to find a lovely, hidden little patch of nature, and one of the thoughts I find myself always thinking at these times is, "Has anyone else been here before? Am I the first? " I might add, that this is asked hopefully, as I am one of "those people" who will find secret places to sign my name, like on the inside of window frames in my childhood home the day we moved, so that years later, it would be discovered that I had lived there. I know. Sad. But true.
In this particular case, I most assuredly  wasn't the first...but I felt like no one had been here for  at least awhile...

I've lived in the Ottawa Valley for about 25 years, and have never seen this grinding stone, or heard of it's existence before. But indeed, here it sat. A round granite monolithe in the middle of sort of nowhere.

And it had a friend.

You know, when you're expecting something, like say, the Eiffel Tower to appear because you happen to be in Paris -when it appears, you're excited and slightly giddy, because it's smaller than you thought it would be, but exactly like it's supposed to look like. Only, uh, smaller.

Well. That's remotely what this was like.

"Well, lookie here!! Two grinding stones, in the middle of absolutely the bush in the middle of the  Sunday drive to nowhere!"

And they're big! Well, teeny mini stonehenges, but still -about 5 feet in diameter. They didn't roll here all by themselves, that's fer sure!

(We don't get out much you now know.)

So, the Burnt Bridge had actually been rebuilt and standing on it, I could pick out this year's now not so secret   picnic spot to which you're all invited.

(on the right..see? where the sunlight hits just right?)

And time was spent in that ponderous moment wondering "where does all that water come from? Where does it go?"

 Someone should have built a grist mill here a hundred years ago!

Oh. They did.

Clever, resiliant, reliable pioneers.

And while there were a few water watchers down by the old mill stream,

 it became apparent that they'd rather be left alone.

Out in the middle of somewhere.

Someone had already signed their name. So, of course,  I didn't.

Acting Naturally.

 As Spring slowly, slowly unfolds this year the lessons Nature

wishes us to learn become apparent.

Things are seldom simple.

And  they are seemingly not what they seem.

First and foremost, Nature is in complete charge.

If She wishes that there be snowstorms in April, so be it. 

This is not about You.

Well, that's not quite true. You will learn how quickly hordes of little tiny Common Redpolls can empty a feeder full of niger. And you may also learn how much better off you'd be if you'd only taken advantage of the bird seed sales last week!
Should have done that.

The camera that was on sale just after Christmas would have captured the feeding frenzy a little better too, proving Nature's lesson that he (or she)

who hesitates is lost generally pays more.

You may also learn that if you must take a picture through screening, then you should have installed the lighter coloured screen and not the black stuff.

Yes, Nature helps us to see many things more clearly.

There is an art to seeing.

If you are a Hermit Thrush you need to blend in and be almost invisible in front of your prey. If you're a human trying to capture a Hermit Thrush with a camera you need to be quick. And lucky.

Sometimes you really can't see the forest for the trees. And  what you think is  a leaf is in fact a Purple Finch. This was  a lucky shot, only discovered after

the fact, with the aid of the digital magnifier.

Nature doesn't need one of those. Ever. She knows exactly how things

are meant to be in order to blend in, you dull earthling dolt. 

Of course, being in complete control of this little blue planet, third from the sun, Nature is not always nasty. In fact, after proving beyond every single solitary reasonable doubt just who's in charge, She  usually sends us something breathtakingly beautiful.

A Loon calling plaintively throughout the night, searching for completion.

There is no nicer Evensong.

And just to be very sure you get every lesson you need to learn, the occasional oddity will be tossed in your direction. Just to make sure you're paying attention. That in the midst of chaos, you've kept your sense of humour.

Believe me.

Until we accept that Nature's in charge here,

and learn how to live within our means,

we're going to be needing it.

Happy Earth Day.

This is a Whine Tour

While winter still insists on scratching it's cold brittle limbs against the window and pelting us with what would be rain if it weren't ice, it's a good time to at least think about birding.

One lovely mellow day last fall I went for a drive through the rich plains leading down to the river - an area of lush farm fields and ditches overflowing with tasty treats for wandering warblers, sparrows, and hawks on high.

It's an old area, on the edge of the Canadian Shield and hunted by the Algonquin over 6000 years ago.  Samuel de Champlain lost his astrolabe near here on one of his visits, and the Voyageurs plied the many lakes and rivers, laden with baubles and beads to trade for furs to warm the tops and bottoms of  European royalty.  Over time it became a destination for Irish, Scottish, Polish, German, and French settlers, hoping to escape famine in Europe in the early 1800's.

The day of my drive, the sun was warm, and lazy bees were making slow work of the meadows, lopsided and laden with pollen, they bobbed beside me,

while bright beady eyes followed their movements.

The Yellow Rumped Warbler is one of the first warblers

to appear in the spring, his cute little butter bum seen flitting

in the bushes and along the edges of fields.

The Song Sparrow is one of the first sparrows to make it back to the Valley. I know for a fact that they have returned, because I've heard then calling out and heralding the rites of Spring. Although I suspect that today

they are hunkered down, hopefully inside a barn out of the wind and rain.

Most likely wondering when the sun is going to shine, and wishing they'd lingered

a little longer  on the  south side of Lake Ontario!

Here in the middle of winter, a day of rain and temperatures hovering around 0 would have everyone saying things like, " Wow, is it ever mild!"

But in April?? Not so much....

Oh crap!

I have just proven, again, that Canadians  will always find

some way to talk about the weather.

Must BE the weather that causes this national trait!

Little Goosey Gander

Little Goosey Gander

Wither do you wander?

Upstairs

Downstairs

In the master's chamber.

(Who dreamt up that little ditty? What could it possibly mean?)

I have no idea what it means! But I do know that over the years, given all the crap and oil and crap and oil that has been placed in the way of all creatures great and small, I have developed a profound respect for any thing with wings who manages to fly by me!

Welcome back  Canada Goose, my  personal harbinger of Spring.

Honkkkk...honkk...hey You! Featherbrain? You listenin' to me?

yes'm.

for more views of the skies around this world, check out
http:www.skyley.blogspot.com

Channeling Dean Martin

Begin humming:

Memories Are Made of This

Take one gentle Cuban night

(Sweet, sweet memories you gave- a me)

Add one restaurant that felt right

(Sweet, sweet memories you gave- a me)

Then add a lobster tail

Some shrimp and rice as well

Strange little vanilla bean for flavour

Stir in an artist's stare

Three pesos to show you care

These are the dreams we will savour

(Sweet, sweet the memories you gave-a me

Can't beat the memories you gave-a me)

What happened to my hair?

Your eyes are brown, you shouldn't stare

(Sweet, sweet the memories Filito gave us)

Out of no where came the band

House in N' Orleans with a Cuban hand

Oh, the evening it was grand

Fold in lightly with the tunes

(Sweet sweet, the memories you gave-a me)

See some art and then the moon

(Sweet sweet, the memories you gave-a me)

One cab, one ride

One beach , one tide

Memories are made of this!

Buenos Noches!

Cuban Skies

The endless shades of blue define the water's edge, and I can watch it endlessly.

It is an island rich in contrast, and no matter where you turn, there is perpetual surprise.

I don't think I will tire of this place.

If one had to define dramatic pause, this would be a good start.

If one had to define the eye of a storm, this would be the time to blink and run.

Which we did.

Visit more sky shots at http://www.skyley.blogspot.com/

The Zen of Birds for Politicians and other Arrogant Worms.

A walk in the woods, a trek through the trees, bits from the branches, you name it, everywhere you turn, there are lessons asking to be learned.

Mother Nature has  written her wise old ways all around you,

if you but care to stop, look, and listen.

And learn.

The beautiful back lit palm, etched by the sun is a lesson in geometry,

hidden treasure, bas relief, photosynthesis, shadows and

the "incredible lightness of being".

Nothing is one dimensional, uni-purposed, or too banal for your attention.

Lesson #1: So pay attention to the little things around you.

For amidst the branches, and behind the palm, a furtive watcher waits

for a little lizard to make its way onto the palm branch. While happily sucking up  tiny red ants, the lizard  is also being hunted, unaware of the danger

lurking above and behind, just over his shoulder.

He sits quietly, waiting for the moment when the lizard is so caught up in his own game, that he forgets to look over his shoulder.

"Good bye lunch."

" Hello dinner."

Lesson # 2: Check the rear view mirror once in awhile.

You never know who's got you in their sights.

And that leads us to the next lesson. What not to wear on the campaign trail?

Bright colours on top is a bad idea, especially if you're a perky little thing that likes to flitter among the crowds, quick in, quick out.

Keep it cheap and cheerful. But not too cheap or too cheerful..after all, this is an election and serious business.

Lesson # 3. This is not a fashion show.

Stick to the tried and true timeless colour basics. Black, blue, white in summer. Small little dabs of jewellery...don't stand out when you're trying to fit in.

Don't let them think you make a lot of money.

Being a buffoon is bad for business when you're trying to win the hearts and minds of the people.

Just ask this guy. Stood out so much from the crowd as he scooped up tiny fishes, that he drew far too much attention to himself, and is now endangered in some regions.  The Eugene Whelan of the pelican species.

Funny. Bigger than life. Gone.

Lesson # 4: Don't be a flying dinosaur.

Politicians are meant to demonstrate wisdom. They should show us the way to harmony and bliss. They are supposed to be leaders, and the most respected generally are. But  over the past few decades, elections have become much less about visions for a nation, and much more about tapping into the motherlode. Finding the  niche demographic that will bring home the win.

It's Politics with a capital P now, where winning is everything.

 And we the people are simply pawns on a giant chess board.

Until of course the election is over, and someone wins.

Then we're forgotten. 

Lesson # 5: The sweetness of the sap will linger, long after the wood

has been tapped.

This may sound like a good thing. But bear in mind that "power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely".  Have you ever noticed how quickly

young and perky politicians turn gray and wrinkly?

They find a comfy cushion on the back bench,

and that's the last we ever hear of them!

Sad. But true.

Don't let this happen to you!

No, you must maintain your flight feathers, and be ready to launch into action at

a second's notice. Seize the light the minute fortune shines on you,

and be ready to fly. Go the distance. Do the right thing.

Lesson # 6. Do sweat the small stuff.

It's the little gestures, the honesty effort, the commitment, and the confidence to fly against the wind that will cast the longest shadow, and cause people to remember your name long after you've left the jungle.

Oh baby, it's a wild world. Hard to get by just upon a smile.

The Essentials

Between here and there, and then and now so much has happened that it's difficult to capture it all and decant it.

For starters, there is Cuba.

Impossibly blue. Filled with possibility.

And dignified struggle.

Pushing a cart of beachwear, or casting a net for sardines

the clock moves much slower in this world. 

Tourists have taken over the edges, but nature takes notes and marks the

trails where it's safe to wander.

Most of the time.

On the day of the earthquake in Japan, and thousands of miles away

on Veradero beach, a cold front moved in and sent the happy holidayers

sprinting for shelter.

It was a magnificent moment. Nature -1. Sunbathers - 0.

Away from the edge, and into the woods, the struggle is relentless

and the termites never stop.

Their home is impermeable to the winds and rains and seasons and tourists.

Awesome.

The bees have figured it out too. And on this rock, they built their home.

Safe from the scrabble and the scrambling of other creatures.

Essential.

And sweet.

Like Cuba.