Category: Baddeck

Buster Goes to Halifax

8/9/2015

An eager young co-ed was poised with her pencil. "What is the most interesting phenomenon in American poetry, Mr. Roethke?"

"What I do next", he said, abandoning her for a ham sandwich.

"My Gaad, he’s rude", she said.

"No, he’s just hungry. His tapeworm just had a nervous breakdown.”

Theodore Roethke, From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke

***

Immature Eagle on our Spruce Tree

***

A couple of weeks ago, when our two friends were visiting us from Picton Ontario, and we were eating in the "Three Doors Down" Eatery, a woman came into the restaurant.

Before I say more, I’d like to mention that this little restaurant is really, as the name indicates, three doors down from the sidewalk end of the building, is terrifically clean, has great food and I would recommend it to anyone who’s planning a visit to Baddeck, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

Anyway, this woman was kind enough to go out of her way to walk up to our table and tell me how much she enjoyed reading my blog. She also said she’d be interested in hearing more about our little doggie. (Whose name is Buster and a Buster he is.)

I appreciated her commenting positively on my blog and would like to return the favour by telling her I have spent a lot of wet, prickly, bug-infested time pulling angelica plants out of our personal turfdom. She’ll know what I mean.

***

Okay, back to Buster. Who is now crashed out on the couch. His eyes are half open, watching me type on my new computer, which I have mostly made friends with. You see, Buster is still exhausted. Because we just recently returned from Halifax. A mighty big city when you live in the bush. Exciting though, and we had a great visit with Sue’s family.

Sue and Buster in our Chebucto Inn room in Halifax

One thing different about this visit was that Sue’s grand-daughter had acquired a pet. A tiny kitten named Cello.

Well, when we arrived, they brought the cat out for all of us to see. However, because Buster was with us, they had to bring the cat to us in a cage. Which they placed on the floor under the expensive piano that Simon plays. He is a concert pianist.

Cello

This was probably a little bit unsettling, I would think. Because Buster was intrigued by the little black and white kitty. He was so curious that he kept putting his nose against the bars to get a better look. Which usually led to a series of hisses and then the tiny claws striking the bars and probably part of Buster’s mug. Which caused Buster to run around the cage and around the cage to get a better angle. Where he would peek into another section of the kennel and get snapped in his furry face again and again.

Hannah, the owner of the little kitty, quietly suggested, the last evening we were at their house, that we put Buster into a kennel.

Can you imagine?

***

           “I the Cat, whose ancestors
               Proudly trod the jungle,
           Not one ever tamed by man.
               Ah, do they know
           That the same immortal hand
               That gave them breath, gave breath to me?
           But I alone am free--
               I am THE CAT.”
                                                                         Leila Usher, I AM THE CAT

While in Halifax, Sue’s daughter suggested we go to William’s Lake for a swim. This lake is located inside Halifax. However, when you go to the lake, it looks like a lake you would find in any part of Eastern Ontario. Yet you are really in a Halifax sub-division.

The day was dreary and wet, so Sue and I didn’t go into the water. Plus we forgot our towels. Was this subconscious? I really don’t know, because we had, that morning, put a thousand miles on our tires looking for the mall and another thousand miles on our feet, tromping through a mall trying to find a bathing suit for Sue and a small insulated lunch packet for me. Even Buster was dragging his ass.

At one point we marched, like three refugees, from one large shopping mall, through a large underground parking lot, following the lines so we wouldn’t get squashed, over to another shopping mall. Maybe the same mall, I don’t know. Where we walked around and around looking for the WalMart, which we had seen on the other side of the freeway. Why do they run freeways through shopping malls? It doesn’t make Cape Breton sense.

There was this woman, stooped down, behind a wall, dragging on a long, thin, non-mentholated, self rolled cigarette. Smelling the smoke made me feel very relaxed while at the same time giving me a strange paranoid thought: That one of the nearby shoppers was thinking of murdering me.

Anyway, when I told her that we were Ma and Pa Kettle and Dog, looking for Walmart, she lazily told us that we were on the wrong level. Apparently, Walmart was somewhere below our sore feet.

“Oh, gee ma, they have more than one level.”

“Woof, woof and damn that flea, ma.”

To get to Williams Lake we drove in a CarShare vehicle. A neat way to have access to a vehicle without having to own one yourself. This car was small. Had room in the front for two people. Sue’s grand-daughter, Sue and I were packed in the back. So where was Buster?

Well, this was one of those little hatch-backie types of cars. Cute, but lacking in room. Buster was put into the back. Behind the back seat. Like he was a dog, for Pete's sake. He could see us and stick his head through the bars to sniff and be petted but he was trapped. So, there he sat. On top of a new rubber floor mat, which had been carefully wrapped in plastic.

To get to the lake you drive on a series of fairly narrow roads, which have lots of uphills and downhills.

Only two people went swimming: Hannah and Jennifer. They bravely swam out into the cold water, under cloudy, wet skies. They swam away from the shore and this upset Buster, who we didn’t think liked water very much. However, he didn’t like them being so far away either, so he jumped in and swam towards them. That was something new for us to see.

However, Buster also doesn’t like being wet and I didn’t have the nerve to ask to borrow one of their towels to dry Buster off. Which left Buster running around looking like a soaked rat, growling, snarling and shaking.

I’d earlier noticed a tee-shirt which had been tossed on a bush. Probably left by another swimmer. I fetched the shirt and used it to dry Buster.

Once the swim was over, we all jumped into the tiny car and drove home. Up and down the hills. Up and down the hills.

At one point it was suggested we stop at this ice-cream shop. Sue’s grand-daughter was asked if she would like ice-cream. She said no. That was a peculiar answer, I thought. A ten-and- a- half- year- old saying she didn’t want ice-cream? Nobody asked Buster, who loves ice-cream.

Anyway, we didn’t stop for ice-cream. Instead, we headed home. Up and down the hills. Up and down. Up and down. Down and up and on one of the uppers or downers, Hannah quietly informed us that her tummy was turning a wee bit with said ups and downs.

And I’m thinking, “Please god, get us home before any sort of fluid expulsion happens in this tight and snug little compartment.” Also, I was still a wee bit paranoid. I didn’t like the way Sue was looking at me.

Meanwhile, Buster, who may have understood that we weren’t stopping for ice-cream or who was just pissed off that he was trapped in the back of this tiny car like an ordinary dog whose name is Buster, decided to live up to his name and began to tear the wrapper off the new rubber floor mat.

I jammed my hand and arm into the crevice so I could grab him and stop him from being Mr. Destructo. It wasn’t a comfortable fit. However, I kept my hand there for most of the trip as we went up and down and as even my stomach began to feel the wear and tear.

To make this long story shorter, I will say that as we pulled in front of their house, Hannah shouted, “I have to get out. Right now!”

Well, she’d warned us and poor Hannah had to unload. And, in retrospect, the ‘no thank-you’ to the ice-cream should have been a big Sherlock Holme’s clue. And there was a bag ready for such an occasion, but unfortunately, it didn’t get to Hannah in time.

As a result, some effluent got into the bag, some onto Hannah, and a bit onto Sue, the floor and the seat.

I had quickly dislodged my arm from the back so that Buster was free to chew on, chew on.

We all tumbled out of the car. The upchucking scene continued under a big oak tree. Sue, who was still carrying the puke bag and Buster’s fifteen-foot leash, (I was actually holding onto Buster, who was on his short red leash), stood on the boulevard, while the vomit dripped out of the bag, onto the leash and onto her clothes.

Meanwhile, Sue’s daughter had grabbed a hose and turned it on, after helping to clean off Hannah.

All of us tried to avoid stepping on the vomit that was under the tree and on the sidewalk. However, Buster stepped in it and I stepped in it because no one had learned the steps to this vomit polka. All dancing around in circles as we tried to clean off Hannah, the sidewalk, the back seat and floor of the car and themselves.

During all this activity I didn’t fail to notice that Buster had taken a fair whack of plastic off that rubber floor mat.

The final straw for poor Buster was that while this was all going on, a big, very big, white cat had wandered down to watch. This cat was as calm as the proverbial cucumber. He’d parked himself under the tree like King Shit and gazed as only a cat can gaze, at all these crazy people running around. Why, the white cat barely blinked an eye. And, when I took a close look at this totally calm, big, white cat, I saw that he was very curious about Buster. And, Buster became, as the confusion calmed down, very interested in the big white cat. Who never moved.

You know what I thought of when I saw the cat? A school yard. Where a big bully kid wanders onto the playground and looks for trouble. Calmly scopes out the kids playing and having fun, picks one out and then goes over and intimidates or just plain beats up the poor sod. That’s what I thought of when I saw the big white cat.

This guy was looking for trouble. And Buster was the bait. And Buster being Buster, walked over and stuck his nose within strike range.

And boy, did Buster get a good shot in the face before I managed to pull him away. I don’t know what Buster thought, but I think that damn cat was laughing at Buster. Laughing at the whole damn bunch of us.

Magic Mushrooms

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River Dance

16/7/2014

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“It is springtime. The zen master and his pupil work in the garden. There, a flock of birds in the sky!
The pupil says to the master, ”Now it will turn warm, the birds are coming back.”
The master answers:”The birds have been here from the beginning.”

Mondo Zen

***

I think my blogs are evolving into a novel, or a book of some sort. A story about how two ‘nearly young people’ live in the forest. In a trailer on a flood plain.

The book’s main plot dealing with one big question. When will the friggen river burst its banks? The book ending with the river’s final onslaught. Where she washes these two overly optimistic protagonists, down to the wide open sea? Where the squid live and love and the trailer people row like hell? See: Oceantrip.com.

You see, the Middle River holds our mortgage and some day she might arrive at our door, dripping wet and with a plan. She’ll enter our place, without a please or a thank-you. Turn our legal mortgage documents into lumps of soggy pulp, drywall and chipboard. Row, row, row your trailer. In 4/4 time.

I think we both have gamblers’ blood in us. “You’ve got to know when to hold them and you’ve got to know when to show them”... or something like that. Accurate or not, we’re playing poker with the river. And I don’t even know how to play poker. Not even strip poker, having had to resort to strip euchre and strip crazy eights at certain times in my life.

But why do people gamble? One reason is they like the thrill. And it’s hardly ever boring around here. And both of us hate boredom.

Old Wood Shed, now Tool Shed

We have a tool shed at the back of the lot. Huddled in the corner. A fair-sized one and a good place to store our surplus stuff.

An old fella down the road told us that the tool shed used to be in the front part of our property. Ha! Our property. Did I just make a funny?

Anyway, in the great rainstorm of 2010, the rains did fall and the waters did flow and the road became impassible and our lot became a river. The said tool shed floated free of its place, and migrated to the other end of the property.

Sue and I took up the river’s poker challenge, looked at our cards and said to the river, “We’ll raise you one.”

So we had a new shed built in the same place the old tool shed had been located. We also had skirting put around the trailer. So there! But we were careful. We told them to stake the shed down.

New Wood Shed

Then one night, not long after these jobs were completed, it began to rain and the rain continued and continued until the river burst her banks. And the waters got close to our trailer. And in the morning, when we awakened after a sleepless night of listening to the river gnawing on our scant lawn, we found all kinds of rocks, stones, branches and other debris laid out on our table. Close to a royal flush.

We were also excited to find a beautiful skeleton of a tree. Its bark fully stripped away. It looked like it could make a shiny sculpture for our property, like a totem pole.

So we said to our river. “We’ll up the ante and enjoy the fact that you put this beautiful tree on our property to use as a sculpture of some sort. Thank you.”

Gift from River

Then we went out and purchased five brand new windows for the living room. Oh, oh. What hand is the river holding? A month and a bit later the rains did fall and winds did blow. The flood waters rose and the trees did fall. So that we lost some mighty big trees. Which started to plug up part of the river.

I went out with my chain saw and began to cut the trees up. Until the snows came and made it too difficult.

“Thank you, river. You have brought us a nice chopping block. Actually more than one, and you have provided us with the opportunity to get some mighty fine firewood.”

“Oh yeah,” said the river. So she sent another flood last January. Her waters filled our driveway and flowed up to our trailer. We decided we should vacate because there was so much snow to melt and it was a-melting and it was a-raining. We put some of our belongings on our toboggan and pulled it over the new river and drove to Baddeck where we stayed in a beautiful hotel overnight and then at a friend’s for a few days. Where we had a wonderful holiday.

“Oh yeah,” said the river.

And she tossed out a spring flood, which did pile up more trees. So now the beavers have found themselves a nice place to live. And on a day when the river was back to being as nice as a little kitty cat, we took a gander at the pile of tree trunks and branches in the river. We studied the physics of the pile of wood and decided that for me to chainsaw it up was like my playing a dangerous game of pick- up sticks. And anyway, we thought that maybe the wall of trees might divert the river’s course and make her less of a threat. Said to hell with the pile of trees. Laughed at the pile of trees and branches. Then drove to the Co-op, located in magnificent Margaree Forks, where we bought a bottle of wine and some other necessities.

Mess of Downed Trees

After a week of being left alone by the river, we put up a wee gazebo. A little six-by-six closet that popped right out of the bag. Like popcorn heated up in a micro-wave. We set it up within a few feet of the river.

“Up yours, river.” Of course we didn’t put up the gazebo to antagonize the river, but to stop the mosquitoes and black flies from bothering us.

Because there’s nothing a black fly likes better than running water. And this water never stops running. It’s in superb shape.

Then one sunny day I was sitting in the little gazebo closet. Reading a book and drinking a diet drink. The gazebo all zippered up.

At one point I stopped reading and studied the mesh wall. Watched a tiny black fly land, then struggle with its own Rubik’s Cube. Which was, in his case, the gazebo’s mesh. I observed the wee insect twist his head this way and that way until he had it at just the right angle. And then, victory! Black Fly Houdini pushed himself through the hole and was free as a bird. Inside my protected place, and I’m sure I heard a whole host of rivulets snickering and chuckling.

So we ordered in our fix-it guy and we purposely installed, “in your face, river”, a brand new expensive front door and screen door.

And the river, within hours, laid a host of mosquitoes down on our card table and just for a laugh sent us, a few days later, Hurricane Arthur. The winds did blow and the rains did pour down but nothing much really happened here.

Ha! We raise you two. We’re talking of a pitched roof on our little mobile home. And a new stove. How much would that raise the ante?

***

However, you can tell we’re attached to the place and the river. The birds, the trees, the plants, the animals, the mountains, the people, the scents, the sounds and the seclusion.

It’s a yin-yang thing. Not only is the river a threat, she also offers us solace and is as powerful as any therapist in any office in any city, town or village. A therapist who offers us therapy twenty-four seven. Her office just outside our window.

“Oh Dr. River, I just can’t get myself up in the morning. I drag myself to my coffee cup. I drag myself to my job. Everything is so organized. I need a challenge.”

“I’ll give you a zest for life. I’ll put some adrenalin into your veins.”

She slaps down a flood.

But she teaches us more than that. As we watch the river flow by we realize the water comes from somewhere and the water goes somewhere. In a continuous cycle of rain and evaporation. Patiently flowing by with a no-sweat attitude.

“What! Would you wish that there be no dried trees in the woods and no dead branches on a tree growing old?”

                                  A seventy-year-old Huron

   Like everything in life, we all pass through a complete life cycle. We are born. We die and our bodies become something else. Maybe, when you slap that mosquito, you’ve just sent Julius Caesar back into the after-life. Et tu Brutus?

“Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?”

          William Blake

“When the finite enters in the Infinite, it becomes the Infinite, all at once. When a tiny drop enters into the ocean, we cannot trace the drop. It becomes the mighty ocean.”

                                      Sri Chinmoy

The river has other lessons. Its eternal flowing into the ocean teaches us not to believe in the nonsensical logic that our society swallows hook, line and news clip. That not accepting the worldly wisdom would reduce the chaos in our cities, temper our crazed belief in unlimited growth, and slow down our lemming-like intrinsic disrespect for our environment. Teach us that we are not in control. Never were and never will be. That’s just one of our myths that will be told by a future ancient.

And our river is music. The music that comes from the stars. The music that is us. Our river dances and sings and growls and calls our bluff. Our river plays a mean game of poker.

“See how I’m sitting
Like a punt pulled up on land.
Here I am happy.”

          Tomas Transtromer

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Cape Breton-Wow!

26/5/2014

6 Comments

Congratulations to the following outstanding Cape Bretoners:

Author Bill Conall, whose latest book, "The Promised Land" won the 2014 Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour. His novel follows two generations of outsiders trying to fit into their new Cape Breton surroundings. See more at: http://www.zoomerradio.ca/news/latest-news/bill-conall-takes-leacock-medal-humour/#sthash.i36alvOw.dpuf

Author and publisher Sherry D. Ramsey, whose speculative fiction book, “One’s Aspect to the Sun”, published by Tyche Press, made the eligibility list for nomination to this year’s Prix Aurora Awards. See more at: http://www.sherrydramsey.com/?page_id=2094 and check out her current projects in process. Sherry is also well known as one of the three publishers of Third Person Press.

Multi-talented Leah Noble, whose blog was featured recently on the front page of The Chronicle Herald in recognition of her creativity in drawing the world’s attention to Cape Breton : http://thechronicleherald.ca/novascotia/1205722-dream-big-cape-breton . Leah is also quick to acknowledge other local bloggers.

My old buddy George from Ontario has been crashing at our place. It’s his first visit to Cape Breton and we’ve made sure that he’s seen and experienced as much as possible. I’ve taken him on a few hikes in Middle River, including one on the mountain. Sure looked a lot different from the cityscapes he’s used to! And he really enjoyed our trip around the Cabot Trail. It was wow this and wow that. An explosion of oohs and aahs. We made many stops along the way so he could record some of the incredible views, but I don’t think he’s likely to forget any of it. We finished the day with a campfire in our back yard.

We also took him to the Doryman Pub and Grill in Chéticamp last Saturday afternoon to celebrate his birthday. We were all impressed by the outstanding fiddling offered by Colin Grant and Jason Roach. It was a toe-tapping, glass-tipping time and there was a cozy feeling about the place. A nice mix of Celtic and Acadian music. If you haven’t been there, take a look at what they offer: http://doryman.ca/index.php/events . Try to get there early enough to get a window seat overlooking the water or you might be sitting at a boarded over pool table, which isn’t so bad if you are bothered by wobbly tables.

Here are some of the sights along the Cabot Trail that got George wishing he could move down here. He had a good time exploring the Cape Breton Highlands National Park, but he also enjoyed shopping in Sydney and North Sydney, eating pizza at Tom’s in Baddeck and getting a haircut at ‘Design Hair’ on Big Baddeck Road.

Cabot Trail Winding

Chéticamp Harbour

Snow along Cabot Trail in Mid-May

Clouds settling on mountains

Neil's Harbour

Grande Falaise

Such a Vista!

No matter how many times we drive around the Cabot Trail, we still find the scenery breath-taking.

View from Tom's Pizza in Baddeck

Relaxing around the campfire

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A Nutty Conversation

18/3/2014

1 Comment

Cape Breton Winter

You may have noticed from reading my last fifteen blogs, that my life isn’t normal. But then, how could it be arse-tight conventional, when we live in a forty-five foot, what looks like an industrial trailer, situated in a snow belt, at the base of the Highlands? Is that possible?

I try. Oh, how I try to be cool and not draw attention to myself. However, sometimes, because I live in the bush, (where I like being), I find myself going into the village and spraying my conversation at everyone near and far. It’s as though the words are stored up and when I get a chance to use them, I do. Then I return home and run the conversations over in my head, and holy crow! Did I say that? Did I say this? What a moron!

So, no matter how hard I try to act like cool, deep-voiced Gregory Peck, I fail, and I will give you one example of my not being cool. Only one, because I don’t like making my blog too long. (The blog regulations can be found in the blog/twitter/selfie manual.)

Last Tuesday night. Yes, let’s take last Tuesday night. I’m chewing on another weather-related decision. I have plenty of them. This time I’m asking myself, do I or don’t I drive to the hockey arena? Because it’s pounding snow out. However it’s not windy. So probably not going to be blizzardy.

Anyway, at seven pm, I decided to drive over the lonely, snow- and-ice-covered mountain road to Baddeck.

Now, as I may have mentioned, my snow blower, Grinder, was in the hospital for quite a time. However, it was recently returned with a new problem. Now the augers won’t stop turning, even when I’m not asking them to. But they do turn, which is an improvement of sorts.

I said to Sue, “I’m used to buying a second-hand piece of machinery and having it gradually accumulate a list of mechanical eccentricities, but I’m not used to buying a brand new machine and having it, almost immediately, fill out a roster sheet of problems.”

Snowed Under

So, the lane isn’t cleared of snow and our vehicles are parked two hundred meters down at the end of our lane. That means I need a flashlight, because, when I return from my hockey game, the spruce-bordered lane will be as dark as a horse’s artistic tendencies.
Well, I drove to the arena. It was a nail-biting trip at times and I saw two separate places where it looked like a vehicle had gone off the road.

Whenever I’m in the arena, I somehow morph into becoming a hockey player. In my mind, I take on my hockey player persona. A combination of Gregory Peck and Davy Keon. He was a great centre for the Toronto Maple Leafs.

I turn on my flashlight. Poke its light around in the back of Basque’s cap so I can find my two hockey sticks. I find them, pull them out, then fetch my hockey bag from the front of my truck. I like it to ride in the cab with me. It’s a good conversationalist and the truck heater warms its contents.

I decide, rather than putting my flashlight back in the truck, which I always do, I’ll put it in my pocket. It's warmer in the arena and therefore the battery will be stronger and more energetic.

I haul my sticks and hockey bag into the cold arena and then into the warmer locker room. Because of the bad driving, only three players have arrived. It’s getting late. I plunk my equipment down. I’m pumped. I’m the man. The not-really-so-good-any-more hacker player. Ready for the game, if there is going to be a game.

As I’m standing in my straight and true hockey pose, a fellow hockey player casually says, “You have a flashlight in your pocket.”

Big deal, I think. I pull it out of my pocket, to show him it really is an authentic, two-battery flashlight. But when I take it out of my pocket, I’m surprised, and somehow not surprised, to see the flashlight shining forth in all its brilliance. My goodness, I must have looked funny, strutting around while the flashlight shone out of my pocket. Like a walking lighthouse.

Last year, one fella, who had only shown up for one game, asked me if I had stayed in Cape Breton and played hockey the whole year. When I said, “Yes, I’ve played the whole year in Baddeck,” he said, “Oh damn! I missed all the fun.”

Now, what did he mean by that? I think I know, but it’s not just me. I have a weird computer too. It’s over twenty years old. Maybe twenty-five years old and I bought it second-hand a long time ago.

Do some of you want a name for my computer? Okay, how about “Percy Macintosh”?

Percy has a word-changing feature. You know, if I want to change a name from “Tom” to “John”, I just fill in the existing name and the name I want to replace it with and hit Change-all. Then my whole manuscript has the name “Tom” changed to “John”. Can be a thousand “Toms” and they will all zap to “Johns” in a matter of seconds.

One day, not so long ago, I decided to change a character’s name from “Ken” to “Calvin”. Hundreds of Kens lurked inside my manuscript. So, I clicked on “Edit”, wrote in “Ken” and “Calvin” and hit Change- all. Voila, all my Kens were Calvins, and I was hoping it wasn’t too traumatic for Ken, and for poor Calvin, who must have felt a few pounds heavier.

Everything went well. Except, Percy is very, very efficient. Possibly too efficient. So he conscientiously changed all Kens into Calvins.

Example: She hung her tocalvin around her neck.

Example: She said to poor Bob, “Sorry Bob, but I am already spocalvin for.”

Example: Larry wasn’t a very good hockey player and ended up with a brocalvin arm.

My god, it changed every darn “ken” in every darn word.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Computer, I think you have a flashlight sticking out of your stupid pocket.” Hardy, har.

A few weeks ago, I was in the trailer by my lonesome. Sue was in town. I went into the bedroom to get something out of the closet. I opened the door and heard a funny chirping sound. It stopped. I hit the closet door. It chirped and squeaked. It stopped. I kicked the wall. Heard a cackling sound. I went to the other wall, near the phone, which broke down last week, gave the wall a knock and heard the tattling, crackling, dripping noise. My god, do we have squirrels or ghosts in our walls?

I walked to the living room. Listened. Nothing. I stomped on the floor. From the bedroom came the weird, playing-a-horn sound, a squeak and something like the sound of dripping water from a tap. I walked back to the bedroom and as I went to knock on the wall, a crow flew away from below the window.

It was our friendly crow, who now had decided to hold a conversation with me through the walls. This crow often follows me down the lane and along the road. As a matter of fact, this crow followed me around the first day we moved in. He must have been curious.

One afternoon, he was sitting in a spruce tree sounding off. The tree grows close to our woodshed. I went there to fetch some wood, and when I opened the door, I found a poor red squirrel, standing in the middle of the room. He was pleading with me not to evict him.

You see, the wood pile is getting smaller. So, I was literally about ready to break into his home, hidden in the last row of wood. Poor squirrel. I felt sorry for him. And maybe the crow did too, and when I went to bed, I got worrying about whether I should make another home for the squirrel to live in. It was still very cold out.

Squirrel gnawing for minerals on our old moose skull

I even said to Sue, “Maybe next year we should buy three and a half cords of firewood. That way, the squirrel will have a permanent winter home. Rent-free.”

Which I know sounds rather funny to some folks, because what many folks do is pop them off for trespassing. Which makes me wonder about who was there first, but I won’t go into that.

So, see what happens when you live in the bush too long? But maybe it’s good to have shining flashlights in your pockets and peeping-tom crows, and snow blowers that don’t follow new snow blower rules and computers which are overly conscientious. Because it means there will always be wacky material to draw from. At least enough to keep this blog going.

Anyway, I like surprises, inconsistencies, wackiness and the humour that arises from these incidents.

Sydney Cox wrote in his book, Indirections for Those Who Want to Write, "Humour frisks the minute to make incompatibles unite. (We earnest people - whom atom bombs and dated obligations to salvage civilization keep on the jump and on the dot - miss that “waste of time.)"

Have any of you found yourselves being wacky without trying?

View of our road from halfway up mountain

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Buster Goes to Halifax

River Dance

Cape Breton-Wow!

A Nutty Conversation

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