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Weird or not Weird?

17/5/2014

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Cabot Trail
Cabot Trail in May 2014
I’d like to apologize for being so late with blog number nineteen. “I’m very sorry.”

And I’m aware that blogs are supposed to pop into the invisible yappy world at least every two or three weeks. Because if they aren’t out there, the magical graph which indicates how many people have read my blog, flattens out and then I get feeling like a nobody.

My excuse for being late, by the way, is that I was in Ontario visiting my family and friends.

Peach Tree Inn
Peach Tree Inn in Kingston, Ontario
First thing I had to do when I began to write this blog was remember how this blog-writing thing works. Because the city makes me crazy.

But not at first. I love driving into my old city haunts, rolling down the 401 and seeing the swamp on the east side of Kingston. Love seeing my family and friends.

Love the Peach Tree Inn with the big room. Two honking big beds, a large bathroom with a gigantic mirror. Now that’s some thrill, and the room has a window which nearly fills in one wall. It overlooks a gorgeous river of cars, trucks and motorcycles. With weird and not so weird people sauntering, power walking or running along its shore.

Who is weird and who is not weird? That’s a philosophical question that often tickles my thinking organ. And when I got thinking about this while I was in Kingston, I’d take a walk into the washroom and stare into the big mirror. Weird or not weird? Weird or not weird?

Then I’d be off to the little refrigerator for a cold beer. And the room had a microwave, a desk for the laptop, a table to sit around, two big drawers, a couch; the luxury was almost too much.

While in the city we visited this store and that store. This pub and that pub. This mall and that mall. Always with the gorgeous river flowing by. Rushing onward towards who knows where. And that’s another one of those weird brain-tickling questions that is hard to answer.

Then back to the hotel and to the big bathroom mirror. Weird or not weird? Weird or not weird?

Anyway, it took a few days of hurrying here and there before my brain began to curl into itself like a tired, nearly popped out baby in the womb. And my healthy Cape Breton routine of not drinking many glasses of beer a day ceased. My regular Cape Breton exercise program flabbed up. I began to do circles every few steps. Like a rat in a concrete shoe box with mechanically placed holes punched through the top.

Signs and rules. Rules and signs. Don’t park here. Don’t stop here. Don’t do this and don’t do that. Do this and do that. Scents galore. Good and bad. Tiny areas of grassy retreats next to tall buildings sprinkled with discarded dreams.

Well, you get the picture and when I finally saw the ‘Welcome to Cape Breton’ sign on the Canso Causeway, my mind and body stretched and yawned like a cat released from a cage.

Can you imagine me living in Toronto? I did actually live in Hog Town once. For eight months. Eight long, stuffy, depressing months.

***
Picture
I was reading a piece in a book edited by David R. Boyd. The book was called ‘Northern Wild’. The essay was called “The Subtlety of Land”, written by Sharon Butala.

She wrote: “Some years later, when I was an established author, I said to a Toronto reporter who had asked me a question about him, “My husband is a true rural man.”

“What does that mean?” the reporter asked, his voice full of skepticism.

“It means,” I said, “that he understands the world in terms of wild things.” I was a little surprised myself at my answer, having been called upon to explain something that until that moment had seemed self-evident, and realizing that, caught off guard, I had hit on the heart of the matter.

The reporter’s pencil stopped moving, his eyes shifted away from me, he reflected, his eyes shifted back to me, and without writing anything down he changed the subject. When I told this story to a writer-naturalist friend, he said, laughing, that for the reporter my answer ‘does not compute.’”

For me the city does not compute.

***
Flying SquirrelFlying Squirrel
I did manage to get two hikes into the Frontenac Provincial Park, a beautiful park north of Kingston. Twenty-two lakes dot this park. One of the places I love dearly. One of the few locales that kept me sane while I lived in Ontario.

My first hike was made with a long-time friend. At one point he stopped to knock down an old branch. While he was giving it a good shaking, a small animal scurried out of a hole. Scampered up the branch and sort of glued itself to a higher place. It looked like a red squirrel and it kind of didn’t look like a red squirrel. Upon further observation we decided it was a flying squirrel. I haven’t seen too many of them.

My friend took this picture of the flying squirrel and very kindly emailed it to me.


***
orange tape on moose skullOrange Tape on Moose Skull
Oh yes, I think I have to make a correction. It’s about blog number eighteen. My blogs are nothing but pure accuracy and when I make a mistake I feel obligated to correct them.

In blog eighteen I wrote that I used bright green trail tape to mark my paths. That was wrong. I used bright orange tape. At least the "bright" was correct.


***
One day, a sunny day it was, with the snow slowly melting and the wind not so frigid on my face, I sat in my woodshed and gazed out at the world. At our little mobile home. Smoke curling out of the chimney. I was content in the knowledge that Sue was inside, most likely performing some computer miracle. I sat and watched and listened to the river and the host of birds who were chowing down at our feeders.

I tossed out some pieces of biscuits. Bird edible. I waited for a creature to swoop down and beak up a quick snack. The food was close to where I was sitting. This, I knew, would make the creatures nervous.

crowHungry Crow
However, we have a crow who hangs around. Last night I even dreamed that he was outside our bedroom window waiting for us to feed him. He’s getting to be a semi pet. I think I gave him a name but I can’t remember what it is. I can thank the city for that. Would you know if I gave the crow a name?

This crow flew towards the woodshed. Did a fly pass or two and then landed about six feet from me. He grabbed a piece of food. But surprised me by not immediately flying away. Instead he grabbed another piece and another piece. About four or five, altogether. Looking like a hungry guest at one of those places where starvation sized sandwiches are laid out on plates for the guests to daintily pick up and swallow with a glass of fluid.

He took off, carrying his booty. He flew it to his gang, the five or six crows who hang out here.

These crows seem to get along. They seldom fight or rush at each other. Hold few food fights. Instead they all eat their own food. Like a good Christian family at Sunday dinner.


***
I’ll close this blog with a picture of one of our neighbours. He is a collector, a long-time resident and like many of us up here, a person who has managed to stave off elimination.

May the force be with him and with you.

Cape Bretoner
Our neighbour
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Living our story

20/12/2013

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What a whack of snow we’ve been getting! I haven’t been able to park my snow blower since last Thursday. Today is Thursday, which makes it over a week and I will have to use it again today. Even though I was out in the blizzard last night freezing my organs off.
snow blower
Break Time for Snow Blower
We know we’re living in an out-of-the-way place when the weather forecasters tell us that a big storm is coming and that we’re now experiencing the quiet before the storm. What friggen quiet? Is there such as thing as a storm in a storm?

You see, Cape Breton is stuffed full of micro-climates and these days my muscles are threatening to bring out the guillotine and start chop-chop-chopping off the cloudy-headed mini weather pattern’s barometers unless they cease and desist.

A couple of weeks ago we were hit with hurricane force winds and rain. So the snow left over from a previous storm began melting away and pouring its juices into the river. The winds and the flood waters took at least another six trees down. Two fallen trees also blocked our lane. Out came the chain saw.
Test question: what’s one of the main differences between a maple tree and a spruce tree? Answer: the maple tree is a deciduous tree and the spruce tree is a coniferous tree. Deciduous trees are hardwood. Coniferous trees are softwood.

See, I know the answer. So why didn’t I think about this piece of info when the chain saw was cutting and zooming merrily through the spruce tree? Why didn’t I recognize that a maple tree is a different kettle of corn? Because it is “harder”. So why did I stupidly not bother to make an undercut beneath the incision I’d inflicted on the top of said maple trunk? Which led to the maple tree putting a death grip on my chain saw’s guide bar and chain. My excuse is that I was in a post-flood-plus mice-piss-in-snow-blower-foul mood. Anyway, I used an axe to get the tree to let go while I tried to shout over the river’s incessant babbling, “Let go, you basket!”

freeing chain saw with axe
Praying for help...
The next day, I was in a small engine shop, where I had the nice mechanic put a brand new guide bar on my chain saw. And after I paid him and was heading for the door, so I could get home and wreck another piece of equipment, I heard the mechanic say, and I quote: “There’s another one here with your name on it.” Good to know. Har, har, har.

We live in a forty-five foot trailer. It falls a tad short of being a palace. Yet when I got up one morning, (as I usually do, thank goodness), and peered out of our bedroom window, I witnessed a beautiful sunny day. I then hitch-hiked to the front of the trailer, where our living room resides, put some wood into the wood stove, started the fire and when I turned around to look out the living room window, guess what? It was pooping snow. I kid you not.

car buried in snow
Abominable Snow Woman
However, there are positives. For one, I don’t need to go to a gym to keep fit. Here’s another negative turned into a positive. Our road is one of the last roads to be ploughed. Do you know what that means, aside from our being trapped? It means it’s a perfect surface for me to ski on. Up to the mountains, through a gorgeous grove of snow-laden birch, spruce and fir. Until the snow plough arrives.

A few weeks ago we were in the city, where we were enjoying its attractions. Pubs, taxis, libraries, movies, stores, malls, people, cars, more people and cars and noise and restaurants and buses and noise and smoke and fumes and a part of me was loving all the stimulation and conveniences. But the other part of me soon began to give me the elbow and clear its throat and nudge, nudge and it didn’t take me long to get the message. I was missing the quiet, the fresh air, the quiet, the animal sounds, the cawing, my snow blower farting its way down our long lane, the quiet, no exhaust fumes and nights with bona fide darkness. Where we can really see the stars when the clouds aren’t dragging their asses across the firmament.


I have a theory. Like most of my theories, it’s probably rife with error but here it is. I think that people become slightly neurotic when they are in an environment of constant stimulation. Maybe their brains close up a bit so they won’t become overwhelmed by the excitement and the constant exposure to others.

David Thoreau wrote: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

art in natureNature's Art
I’d also like to throw this quote out, seeing I’m in a quoting mood: ”Ah,” exclaimed the old man, “such is the strange philosophy of the white man! He hews down the forest that has stood for centuries in its pride and grandeur, tears up the bosom of Mother Earth, and causes the silvery watercourses to waste and vanish away. He ruthlessly disfigures God’s own pictures and monuments, and then daubs a flat surface with many colours, and praises his work as a masterpiece.”

Who needs wilderness nowadays?  Don’t we have the virtual world? Don’t we have poorhouses?

Couldn’t resist.


Here comes another quote, except this time it’s a writing quote by Sydney Cox, taken from his wonderful book titled, “Indirections for Those Who Want to Write”.

 “When you tell a story or write a poem, it is from your point of view that you select, reject, arrange, make form. The thing you write about must interest you wholly, must seem so vital that you accept no current or approved view of any item of it, but look at every constituent from your point of view...”

And maybe that’s what we’re doing. We’re living life from our point of view. Creating, just like somebody created a Walmart or a Costco. Creating something different is what makes a life or a story or a poem vital. Our story.

Hang on, one more quote from Sydney Cox: ”You can hardly fail to notice that the writers who most delight and challenge you do not look at anything from quite the angle that any of the broad terms designate.”

A brief mention of my friend and bicycle, Buddy Lee. He is miffed. Ticked off. Because he was evicted from his wood shed apartment and put into the tool shed. Which is not convenient because it’s way back at the corner of our yard. And he is sharing his living space with the bad, destructo mice who maliciously attacked Grinder, who is now living in Buddy Lee’s old bachelor pad. I just didn’t have room for both, and I specifically told my bike that he would not enjoy living with Grinder. Not unless he likes mice pee perfume.


Next blog I might try to explore why I like to give names to such critters as my snow blower and bicycle. Have I mentioned that my truck’s name is Basque?

Have a great week.
truck named Basque
My Truck Named Basque
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Don't Blink-Here Comes a Short Story!

26/10/2013

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Conall's book
I’ve finished reading Bill Conall’s book, “The Promised Land, a Novel of Cape Breton”. It sure was a ‘novel’ look at Cape Breton, and I enjoyed it. To me, it was a gentle story, chock full of interesting Cape Breton characters, with lots of adventures woven together to make a great read. A wonderful book for tourists and others to enjoy learning about Cape Breton. To read an excerpt, go to his website: http://billconall.com/my-books/the-promised-land-a-novel-of-cape-breton/ 

We will be heading to Halifax on Tuesday. On Halloween Night, I will be trick-or-treating down the dark streets of the city with little Hannah, Sue’s granddaughter, scaring the willies out of the residents. I’ve sent a note to my dentist.

 A few days later, we’ll be off to Kingston, Ontario. So it’s possible I might be off the grid for a few weeks. But don’t worry. I have my dentist’s prescription safely tucked inside my wallet, in case my front tooth gets too sore. And don’t worry, if it does get too achy, I will fill the prescription and swallow the pills. So there, there, it will be all right.

My dentist has promised me that I can have a root canal when I get back. If I so desire. So, don’t worry, and anyway, the many excellent pubs in Kingston may also help with my tooth therapy.  


Middle River
My Meditation Spot on Middle River
The last month I have been struggling with two short stories for a contest. I told Sue that writing a story is like giving birth. I’m sure she finds this hard to believe as she has given birth. Twice.

Of course, I’m talking metaphorically. Because I’m a writer, damn it. I’m talking metaphorical birth. Push, push. Breathe out.

 “Okay,” I said to Sue. “Does giving birth last for weeks and weeks? Does giving birth turn you into a neurotic when you’re finished”? 

Maybe it does, I don’t know. Does giving birth make your eyes blink rapidly for weeks? Make a teeny-weeny ache feel like the most acute, scary disease that humankind has ever been smitten by? Oh, I could go on and on.


Katherine Anne Porter said, after finishing her novel, ‘Ship of Fools’, “I finished the thing; but I think I sprained my soul.”
prepping hiking trail
Making the Gold Brook Mine trail safe for a group hike
I’ve been doing some research on what judges are looking for in a short story. I’m talking about stories under 4,000 words in length. What I’m finding is that many of them want a long version of a short twitter. So I’ve been cutting, pruning, gouging, snipping, crushing, erasing, splattering and stomping on large sections of the first versions of my stories. As a result, what may have begun as a one-hundred-word paragraph, might, by the time I’m finished, be down to fifty words, or twenty words or maybe the paragraph gets the big SNUFF.

I think learning about and trying to write short stories for contests is similar to athletes training for and running the hundred yard dash.

I know people who go walking. I mean WALKING. They read books on how to maximize their stride. They walk a certain distance each day, walk as fast as they can to get the maximum aerobic effect. You see them dropping their heads periodically to check on what their computerized watches are telling them. And those watches can tell you a heck of a lot. Your blood pressure, your heart rate, how many calories you’re using, how many footsteps you’ve taken, how far down your stomach pipe your last granola bar has slid - oh, just lots and lots of data.

I think writers writing for judges can be like those intense walkers or cyclists. They’re trying to reach a goal. To win, and in writing short stories that means making the story super tight and super taut. Big muscles with little fat.

What about the hiker who hikes to see things? To smell, listen, taste, touch and think? That’s how I like to hike or to cycle. To be aware. Not to do a twitter hike.

goldfish
However, I’ve read that the average reader nowadays has the concentration level of a goldfish.

“Oh look, Bob, there’s a man in a funny looking helmet blowing air bubbles.

“Oh look, Bob, there’s a man in a helmet blowing bubbles.”

“Look, Bob. A man blowing bubbles.” That’s my goldfish twitter feed short story.

Anyway, here are two, oh what the heck, I’ll give you three short story pointers. Start with a big bang and finish with a big summing up bang. And of course, as in all good writing, show, don’t tell.

Have a good week.


fall colours
Buddy Lee enjoying fall colours at Lake 0' Law
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