Category: Maritime Mac

Cabot Trail 's Magic

9/12/2016

Cabot Trail

Before I begin this blog I want to answer a question which I received from one of my blog readers. She asked me why the dog in my last Maritime Mac blog looked so much like Buster.

The answer is my Maritime Mac stories are re-enactments. It’s just too difficult to track down all the actual dogs which are in Maritime Mac’s large extended family. The real Bradley, who was in the last blog, is a border collie. His day job, is as a security guard at a sheep farm. He was not available.

Also, it can be very expensive to pay a dog to sit for my photographs although I have begun to use the social media to try and find other dogs who might like to make a few bucks. Luckily, Buster has offered to pose for the blogs and for this I’m thankful.

Now, onward and upward with Blog 61.

***

One morning, last week, I woke up and the very first thought that came to my mind was, “I woke up. Whew!”

Now, are these the thoughts of a person with a healthy balanced philosophy on life or the thoughts of a hypochondriac? I’ll let you decide.

A clue. Last week I went to a chiropractor. The doctor handed me a handful of forms and a pen. It was a questionnaire. On one sheet there was a list of disorders. I was to indicate the diseases I have or ever had. My god, just give me a loaded gun.

Since this check-the-illnesses-off event I have been gradually dredging up, in my memory, each and every disease listed on that sheet and have had to try, super hard, not to believe I’ve contracted all the listed maladies. There is a down-side to having a good imagination and I can actually create believable pseudo symptoms. I’m that good.

But what does this have to do with this blog? A big donut hole except for the part about waking up. That fact is relevant in everything I do.

You see, I awoke, without my glasses on. I never need glasses to see in my dreams. Perfect twenty-twenty vision. But in the awake world I have a seeing ailment. I need my glasses.

Anyway, that morning the outside part of our bedroom window was not the colour it usually is when it is out of focus. It was white out of focus. Lots of white, so I asked Sue, who was awake. “Is that snow or fog?”

Our Snowy Cape Breton Highlands

Sue can see better that I can without her glasses.

“Snow, dear.”

“Nuts. I was kind of hoping it was fog.”

However, it was pretty, and when Buster and I went for our tromp, there was a Christmasy feeling to the morning and that’s not a totally bad experience. At least if you’re lucky enough to not have a life that makes Christmas feel like a deep black hole you may never be able to climb out of.

PUTTING DOWN ROOTS

But, what does all this have to do with the story I’m going to tell you? Not much, except to say that, after I’d asked Sue to give me the early morning window report, beeping sounds reverberated from somewhere near or in the kitchen and to hear them we had to be awake. I assumed it was Sue’s computer.

“Is that your computer, my sweetness?” I asked.

“Jeepers. You want a weather report and now a beep-beep report, my love?”

Anyway, a few minutes later, when I walked into the kitchen, I found Sue and she told me she figured she knew where the beeping sounds were coming from. The stove.

So, I checked the stove out. The timer was the first dial I suspected. I turned it on and off, so I could make the timer go beep, beep, but when it beeped, it didn’t sound at all like the beeping sound we were hearing.

I then checked the oven light switch, looked inside the oven, looked around the oven and etc. etc. And when we heard the beeps again they still didn’t sound anywhere near the stove.

One problem was that the beeping sounds only happened about every three minutes and both Sue and I have trouble localizing sound, which made it even more difficult and puzzling.

Every three minutes we’d hear the beeps and they would sometimes sound like they were coming from the oven and then they’d sound like they were coming from behind us and then they’d sound like they were coming from below us. Good lord!

We were pulling out drawers, hoisting boxes, checking our pockets and shining our flashlights into tiny, never before explored, kitchen crevices.

I even found myself looking in the broom closet where I actually checked the broom and ironing board for expiry dates or, get this, expiry warning lights.

No expiry dates or warning signals here!

After one beep-beep, I found myself looking at the microwave. Looking to see if it was looking guilty, and it was, so I set it for three seconds. Poked the button on. Put a water glass stethoscope to its nervous window and listened to the sound it emitted. A definite heart murmur, but not even close to sounding like the beep-beeps.

“You may go, Mr. Microwave, but don’t leave Cape Breton until we’ve solve this puzzling beep-beep thing.”

Another beep-beep and these seemed to come from near the front door. So, we removed the little flashlight which hung from a hook. Looked to see if it had a blinking light. It didn’t, nor did the dog leash, Buster, the candles, the scissors, any of my hats. Not a friggen thing.

So, I dropped to my knees and crawled under the table where I checked all the black worms and snakes that poked out of Sue’s computer and other creepy looking electronic gadgets. Anything, that looked guilty, expired or had a friggen light flickering. Nothing.

CREEPY ONE-EYED FOREST CRITTER

The next beep-beeps sounded like they were coming from the floor next to the stove. Where I found a possible suspect. A dust-covered fire extinguisher that was hidden behind a bag of recyclables and looked kind of electronic with all sorts of warning labels on it and I had hope it would have an expiry date or a flashing light.

I picked it up, gave it a close examination, looked for anything that look beep, beepie. Nothing, but it still looked suspicious so I set it on the table and waited to see if it would beep, beep.

Three minutes later: “Damn it! Not the fire extinguisher.”

By this time we were beginning to think it was my deceased friend who’d dropped around for a little more fun. That’s another story.

“Why don’t we each park ourselves in a different part of the kitchen and wait to see who’s the closest to the beeping,” I said. Really didn’t sound like much of an option and, to tell you the truth, this whole thing was becoming not fun. We were gobsmacked. (What a neat word).

“I think I’ll take a shower,” Sue said.

“Okay, my dear. You go ahead.”

“Thank you, my love. Please don’t turn the cold water on while I’m sudsing myself up or I will get burned. I hate that.”

“Don’t worry, my love. I will set Buster’s treat stool in the middle of our beloved kitchen floor, sit on it and wait for the beeps.”

“Thank you, my love. That is a very good idea.”

“See Spot run. Run Spot, run.” An excerpt from my Grade One Dick and Jane reader. It is from this reader that I learned how to write the proper and sparkling dialogue you are reading in this blog.

Blue Jay in our Tree

Anyway, if you ever drop around our place you will see, in front of our trailer, a picture of two crows, and written underneath the crows are the words, “Two Old Crows Live Here”.

Yes, two old crows, bouncing around the kitchen, in a forty-five-foot trailer, which is tucked in the woods, is situated on a flood plain, and in the winter, is regularly pounded by heavy snow, because it is also located in a snow belt, and yet, these two old crows can’t find the bleep’n beeps.

“We are hearing these beeps, aren’t we my dear?”

“I think so, my love, although Buster seems to be totally uninterested in the beep noises we think we are hearing.”

However, we finally solved the puzzle, but I think there were at least two reasons why we had so much trouble finding the two beeps.

First, Sue threw me off by telling me she thought the beeps were coming from the stove. So, I spent a lot of time on the stove. This kind of put a block in my mind about what it might be.

Secondly, as I mentioned earlier, both of us have trouble localizing sound.

However, the answer to the beep puzzle was forthcoming because, while Sue was showering, I heard the sound once again and it happened while I was leaning on a kitchen chair. Hanging on the back of the chair was Sue’s purse. And inside the purse was her cell phone, bless its little heart.

You see the chair and the hanging cell phone were equidistant from every part of the kitchen. Almost dead centre and this was the reason why the sound was hard to localize.

So, Sue’s cell phone had been, all this time, heroically shouting out for all us old crows to hear, “My BLEEP’N BATTERY IS NEARLY DEAD. NEARLY TITS UP. NEARLY GONE TO THE GREAT HUNTING GROUND IN THE SKY. PLEASE ATTEND TO ME!”

“Oh thank you dearest, for finding the beep.”

“You’re welcome, my sweetness.”

And Buster, who sensed a break in the ambient emotional stress that had laid its harsh hand over our forty-five-foot trailer, proceeded to his treat stool and stood on it and looked up at his myriad bags, boxes and plastic wrapped assortments of doggie treats.

“Woof, woof! I believe I deserve a treat, my dearest care-givers. I have had a rough morning trying to figure out what the hell you two were doing.”

                                                          (my master is an idiot
                                                                        how freely I admit it
                                                                        he used to have a thinking-cap
                                                                        but someone must have hid it)
                                                                                                      Abigail Thomas, Doggerel

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

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Bite Me!

13/8/2016

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A few weeks ago, on a hazy Sunday afternoon, I was at a friend’s house getting pricked and poked by a mob of downed crab apple branches. Have you ever seen the size of those thorns? Two inches at least. I’m glad I’m not scared of needles.

Anyway, while I was doing this, Sue was at home, sitting on the deck, swatting at black flies and feeling Buster’s love, as he was sharing some quality time with Sue.
Suddenly, a moose appeared out of somewhere and Buster was off like a shot and then, so was the moose.

We’ve been told that our acreage—who really owns acreage?—-is a moose highway. This route meanders between the mountain range to the south of us and the mountain range to the west of us. Lucky us. I mean it. Really.

You may not know this, but a moose can outrun a dog the likes of Buster Boy. But, well, let me tell you another story.

Years ago, I used to have a wee rust-bucket 1962 VW Beetle. By the time I’d junked it, it had had almost every one of its organs replaced, including the motor and transmission.

(Note the two ‘its’ and the two ‘hads’ following each other in the previous sentence. This is what makes a writer’s life so gol-darned exhilarating. Sometimes I can hardly contain myself.)

Anyway, there was this big blustery fella who liked to have everything big. Big cars, big noises, big these and big thats. We used to park our vehicles near each other on a gravel parking lot.

One day, when I met him in the parking lot, he challenged me and my wee little handicapped, under-powered car to a drag. His vehicle was a 1961 V-8 Buick powerhouse. The drag would start at the back of the parking lot and end at the street entrance. It was a pretty casual affair.

So we started our engines, gentlemen, and lined up. He revved his engine. I burped my engine. A surrogate flag of some sort was dropped and we were off. Or at least I was, because this fella’s powerhouse car just sat in one spot and spun and spun and spun. My little beetle hiccuped forward and was at the street before the monster even got mobile.

I think this race happened because I’d mentioned that on a short race track, a race horse could probably beat this fella’s car. This guy was very competitive and he wanted to show me that I was wrong. As if I’m not competitive!

Anyway, I guess he thought he could prove I was wrong by having this race. His car being the car and my car being the race horse that looked like a ladybug.

Moose

So, in the animal world, Buster was my 1962 Beetle and the moose was this fella’s 1960 V-8 Buick. And Sue gawked at Buster’s speedy acceleration and at the gigantic moose spinning his hoofs. And as she saw them racing across our lot toward the quiet forest and into the beyond, all this drama was quickly ended by a law of physics.

The law that says: A two-hundred-foot rope tied to the neck of a hell-bent canine will stop this fuzzy streaker’s inertia faster than the sudden acceleration when the overly excited canine began.

However, it took Sue’s heart longer to decelerate than Buster’s and likely that of the ghost of the forest as well. Which, I think, is one of the phrases they use to describe a moose, along with sayings like, “Your mother wears army boots”.

Our Busy Bird Feeders

***

Before I begin this Maritime Mac story I would like to make a little disclaimer or confession. Most of my M.M. stories are close to true, but not totally non-fictional. There’s usually a teeny, weeny bit of artistic license buried in the MM tales. So, you’ve been forewarned.

Here’s the next Maritime Mac adventure. Mostly true.

Maritime Mac likes to cycle, just like me. And, like me, he sometimes finds it repetitious and boring if he rides the same route over and over again. So, of course, he does other routes, like me. Seems sensible.

You see, his get-in-shape route is a 13.6 K ride to the Middle River Hall and back again. This is the route he cycles the most often and from time to time it can be a tiny bit tedious. Not a lot tedious though, because there is always something to see, smell, hear or feel.

Perfect example of seeing and smelling!

On this training route there are four dogs for Maritime to worry about. There is, however, another route which is 19.6 K and which goes to a now extinct baseball diamond. On that route there are six canines to worry about. Some of these dogs are huge. Two look like part bull-dog and part rottweiler.

Curious deer along the way...

Because, as I said, the training route can get a bit overly familiar at times, Maritime Mac has made up a game. This game, which he calls a road game, in contrast to a board game, contains only a few parts. They are: Maritime Mac, his bike, a dog and a stop sign. Maritime calls the game, ‘Sneak By the Dog.”

Now, it should be noted that the opposition, which is a medium-sized, yappy, canine mixture of dog and woof, is a fella who, once he gets his barking motor going, has difficulty shutting it off. He’ll start barking when he sees Maritime and, even after Maritime has biked the last K and a half to his house, has stripped down, taken a shower, dried off and is back outside to feed and water his bike, (which he calls ‘Hornet’), he can sometimes still hear the dog bow-wowing into the highland sky.

This dog is tied up along the side of his owners’ house. He’s hitched to his own little dog house. Maritime doesn’t know his name so he calls him Spot. See Spot bark. Woof, woof.

Spot

Anyway, here’s the goal of the game. If Maritime, on the way back, (The 'Way Back' Rule), can bike past the dog and make it to the stop sign, which is about a hundred yards down the road, without Spot barking at Maritime, then Maritime gives himself a point by sticking one of his right hand’s fingers out and saying, “One point for me.”

If Spot barks before Maritime makes it to the stop sign then Spot gets a point. Maritime will stick one of his left hand’s fingers out and say, “One point for Spot.”

Saying these phrases out loud helps Maritime avoid the Senior’s Brain Fart Syndrome.

Another rule I should mention, is Maritime is not to look at Spot when he passes Spot’s house. This is the ‘Innocence is Bliss’ rule. It must be noted, at this point, that the game can never be considered totally fair because Spot has no idea that he is in this competition.

By the way, the game only goes to five. I’m sure you can guess why. Therefore, the winner is the first competitor to get to five fingers. It’s called the ‘Five Fingers’ Rule.

***

“Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man had hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity. I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand, instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.”
D.H. Thoreau, “Thoreau On Man & Nature ”

***

Anyway, one sunny, but cool day, with the wind a pleasant and gentle breeze and only a day after ‘Thumper’ had snowed Cleveland under a foot of sad bullshit, Maritime was breezing by Spot’s house. Not looking at his highly skilled competitor. His eyes focused on the stop sign. Pedaling as quietly as he could, avoiding gravel and noisy road surface stuff. Riding, riding, riding by the house. Not looking. The stop sign up ahead. Maritime’s fingers on alert, on both hands. Totally neutral. Left or right? Left or right?

“Woof, woof!”

“Oh nuts,” Maritime whispered. “Five to three for the dog. Looks like I’ve lost.” And he’d left the trophy at home.

Suddenly, “OMG!!” Maritime whispered, in the way only somebody on social media, such as a blogger, can curse and show genuine concern and fear. “OMG!!”

Spot wasn’t tied up, but wasn't he always tied up? It was part of the game. It was an unwritten rule. Spot had broken the rule and was barreling for old Maritime.

Maritime stopped his bike while Spot circled around the bike like a hunting wolf.
Maritime pulled out his water bottle. Tried to look cool. Took a swig of the warm water. Began to talk to the dog like he was Spot’s friend. Talked about the weather and about climate warming, those kinds of things. Tried to impress him with the human power of proper, grammatically correct speech.

It should be noted that Maritime sometimes, from time to time, has the tendency to put his foot into his mouth.

Anyway, “Woof, woof, woof and grrrrrrrr,” Spot replied, using only verbs. Bad dog.
Then he began to lunge forward and lunge backward. Parry and thrust. Snap, snap and so close to Maritime’s bare leg that Maritime could feel Spot’s hot breath on his leg.

Maritime tried offering Spot a drink. “Would you like a drink?”

Spot’s growl got to sounding more vicious.

“Holy crap,” Maritime whispered. He had to get the hell out of there. This dog, this competitor in this made-up game, was becoming frenzied in his attention to detail. In a game where he’d suddenly changed the rules.

So, Maritime sprayed water square into Spot’s mug. However, his ammunition was low, because he had drunk most of it. The water strategy seemed to work, however, because Spot backed off. Watched Maritime intently while his lips curled and folded above his shiny white teeth. It looked like Spot didn’t like water in his snozzle. So, Maritime took a trial pedal forward.

Spot watched him. Still on hair-trigger alert.

Maritime might have been let off the hook, at this point, if he hadn’t had his macho streak. The element that makes him want to win. So much. Made him want to get in the last word, as mentioned previously.

Because, as he began some serious pedaling, with Spot only watching him and growling, but not making a move to charge, Maritime fell back into his old pattern.
So, as he was cycling his escape and as he was feeling the power and seeing the distance pile up between him and the slightly catatonic dog, he twisted his head around, looked at Spot’s confused, dripping face, and shouted, with the wind clearly carrying Maritime’s aggressive and competitive words to the dog, “BITE ME!”

OMG!!!.

Final score: Dog five. Maritime Ten stitches. Game over. For good.

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life and death themes

7/7/2016

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Baby Evening Grosbeak on our Deck

A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine passed away. Terry Phliger, who lived in Michigan, died only days from his 69th birthday and only hours before his scheduled resettlement in Ontario.

Terry Phliger--R.I.P.

Terry was an artist, professor, humourist, practical joker, story-teller and a compassionate and highly intelligent human being. His mind and spirit were powerful, which was obvious in all he did and said. He was also a person who continually encouraged me, whether in my personal life or in my creative one. His humour and laser-sharp, insightful responses would usually leave me chuckling and encouraged, while sending my problems fleeing to some decrepit corner, where, safe from Terry’s iron-clad diagnosis, they could sulk and suck their miserable thumbs away.

I’ll miss Terry. As astute a man as I have ever known and one who, I’m sure, if there is an afterlife, is already planning some heavenly prank or is busily becoming a pain in the devil’s ass.

“On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world.”
H.D. Thoreau, Thoreau On Man & Nature

Larry, Grace and Sue on our Knotty Pines Patio in Ingonish

Maritime Mac, who likes to hang around train stations, was hanging around the front door of the Truro train station one grey, humid day . He was there because he had to drive a friend to the station.

While hanging out by the heavy doors he also enjoyed the delicious odour of Murphy’s Sea Food which drifted around the corner and into Maritime’s nose.

Three young lads approached on their bicycles. The oldest boy might have been twelve while the other two were younger. Maritime only heard part of the conversation and he didn’t hear the names of these characters, nor that of the character they were talking about, but what he did hear made his loitering worthwhile.

I’m going to make up the names, all for the sake of security and quality, so you can enjoy the conversation.

“Tod kissed Rebecca,” one boy said.

“I’m going to kiss her,” said the second little boy.

“You already kissed her. It’s my turn to get one,” responded the third little fella.

Then the three cycling smooch bandits rolled on down the concrete plaza sidewalk and out of Maritime’s life. Leaving Maritime Mac chuckling and with a wee story he knew he’d just have to tell to some Cape Bretoner when he got back to the mountains.

Sue, Grace and Buster enjoying a morning walk in Ingonish

***

And now a brief note to Marianne. Never fear, I have been keeping my eyes open for the angelica plant and have already filled two big plastic bags with their shrivelled up bodies. I think, however, now that I recognize what they look like in their infancy, that next year, I’ll walk my grounds in the early spring and pull them up when they’re in their babyhood.

Thought you’d like to know.

***

I think comments on the language in my book, ‘White Eyes’ are a good example of democracy at work. For every person who doesn’t like the swear words in my book, there is at least one other who doesn’t mind those nasty words or may even find them cathartic.

I’ve mentioned this profanity issue in another blog, but because it has been brought up again and because I try to respond to comments from folks who read my blog, I’m discussing it here, once again.

I think profanity can make the dialogue in a story more authentic and not too sugary sweet, when used appropriately. However, the longer I continue to write, the more careful I am about when and when not to use these big-bad-wolf words.

The strange thing is, I don’t, for the most part, swear. However, when I’m writing, and I have the dialogue bouncing around in my mind, the words are there and I simply type them out. Later on I may edit out some of the little buggers.

My hope is that folks who don’t swear, can read through, over or under the words and still enjoy the stories.

Like the fella who read my book and then congratulated me on capturing the insanity in this world. I appreciated his kind words. He’d apparently found this theme in my stories and as in many stories in many books, the messages aren’t always so easy to discover.

Moon Peering Through the Trees

“The voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It comes from thought above the will of the writer. That is the best part of each writer which has nothing private in it: that which he does not know; that which flowed out of his constitution and not from his too active invention; that which is the study of a single artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many you would abstract as the spirit of them all.”

Emerson, Selected Essays

One thing I’m trying to say through my stories, is that we aren’t as important as we think we are. Our actions, philosophy and status on this small, rotating, egg-shaped ball of immense diversity, aren’t as solid, momentous, or as superior to ‘the others’ as we believe they are. Intrinsically believing that an idea or opinion is rock solid does not prove anything.

HOWEVER, BEWARE! Our creative muses, like wind or spirit, once tamed or fully understood, lose their power. Sort of like when Delilah cut off Samson’s long hair. He couldn’t pull down a pillar, a post or a two-by-four and maybe that’s why, in the original Hebrew, the word God was written without vowels. Impossible to utter and therefore out of our taming and diminishment-of-awe reach.

Heavy Mist at Ingonish

Anyway, no matter how I try to convey it, I’m really not very good at verbally expressing what touches and affects my soul. That’s why I write stories.

***

When ‘White Eyes’ first came out, I found myself walking around town with my head down as I waited for the criticism - negative and/or positive - to begin. I found that both kinds of appraisals filled me with all kinds of emotions and often not the feelings I expected.

Not too long after ‘White Eyes’ was published, I was walking along the lake shore in Baddeck. It was only a few days until Christmas and the snow hadn’t yet come to Baddeck with any vengeance. While hiking along the shoreline I came upon a friend who was sitting in his vehicle, looking out over the lake, teary-eyed. Not because of having read my book, but because the memories Christmas brought to him were stirring his heart.

We chatted and, at one point, he told me he’d read one of my stories.

Then he said, “I didn’t like it.”

He apologized for not liking it.

I told him not to apologize, because I took negative criticism better than positive. Maybe I’m more used to it, I don’t know. But funnily enough, he has since become one of my best ‘White Eyes’ promoters. However, I found his negative criticism easier to handle coming from a non-Aboriginal than the accolades coming from non-Aboriginals. At least during the first year.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I genuinely appreciated receiving positive comments from non-Aboriginal folks. However, what I really needed was to hear the Aboriginals respond positively to ‘White Eyes’ and therefore, being congratulated by non-Aboriginals would often cause me to feel, at some level, emotions of guilt and sadness, even though I appreciated their kind, supportive words.

I think it was because I knew that the stories only existed because I’d had the chance to spend time with the Aboriginals. Therefore, I needed to know what the Aboriginals thought about my book. Because, if I didn’t hear positives from them, then I knew I’d feel like just another exploiter, as so many White people were before me.

‘White Eyes’ wouldn’t have existed had I not been able to live in their community, taste their food, drink their drinks, experience their customs, share in their joy, feel their pain, be sad when they were sad, laugh at their humour and a whole lot more that I will probably never be able to properly represent. That’s why, on the first page of ‘White Eyes’, you can find an appropriate verse which is taken from the Bible. “I was a stranger and you took me in.” Matthew 25:35

One cold night, a Native fella and his daughter dropped around to pick up some toilet paper. Notice I didn’t say borrow toilet paper, for obvious reasons.

It was after midnight. The Aboriginal fella’s daughter, about twelve years of age or so, picked up a copy of my book from the coffee table. She opened it, quietly read a little bit, looked up and then told me she liked the book, specially when it talked about eagles and she told me all her friends were passing the book around and enjoying it.

That was the best critique I could hear. And then as time went on and other Aboriginals commented on White Eyes, I came to realize that the Aboriginal folks around here enjoyed the fact these stories were written about them. They found the stories funny and ‘White Eyes’ had also allowed the non-Aboriginal world to take notice.

Also, many of them visualized me as being the main character in most of the stories. One fella talked about when I fell under a truck in the story called, ‘Mountain Iris Spirits’. It wasn’t really me and that specific incident never happened to anybody I knew. It was made up. However, I did get my thumb wrapped up in a rope as a load of logs shifted on the back of a wagon.

I may, from time to time, include in my blog the beginning of one of my stories. Just a page or two, in the hope that it may whet the appetite of some blog readers to read ‘White Eyes’.

Oh, and many of you might be wondering what bits of Busterness Buster is up to. A lot, so stay tuned. I’m sure you’ll hear more about Buster, but for now, please read the first very small section from one of my stories in ‘White Eyes’.

MOUNTAIN IRIS SPIRITS
We were up on Owl Mountain. Both of us frustrated up to our yin yangs with Denise’s extended family. We live with them, on the reserve, in the family home. Three bedrooms and fourteen people. Us sleeping on the living room floor. Everybody else sleeping in bedrooms, except for Uncle Charlie who, with his fat tabby cat, slumbers half his day away in a tent on the front porch. Denise’s ex moved in last month and Denise gave him our small basement bedroom. A piss-off but she felt sorry for him. Red alert to our relationship, as we couldn’t sleep or do anything personal until the last member of the family had decided to turn off the television. Phony anger fits and antics were on almost the whole goddamn night, and in the morning we’d awaken, our eyes swollen from lack of sleep, to find the kids dripping their breakfast all over our bed sheets while they watched cartoons, or tiny Tod-alias Batman during the day-soaking us in everything from thirty-five S.P.F. sunscreen lotion to his cereal milk.

According to Denise, this mountain we had retreated to is also the home of spirits. She said they were everywhere, but today it was quiet and peaceful, as a bald eagle circled over the spruce forest. I hadn’t seen many eagles in Ontario but there sure were a lot of them in this part of Cape Breton.

“My stomach’s all jittery. Means there’s spirits hanging around,” Denise said.

“I get that with a hangover.” I laughed. She didn’t.

“Yeah, right. Most of you white people couldn’t see the spirits if they were plastered to your nose.” She swept her long black hair up into the mountain air, looking like an ancient mountain fairy queen.

“Maybe I can. I’m just not around people who talk about them all the time. You’ve been drenched in ghost talk. People always going on about spirits. Everywhere. Cripes, your sister ties her blankets down so the ghost won’t yank them off her bed, and you’re always hearing about somebody finding Mary or Jesus or some saint on a window or somebody’s toilet seat.”

I was sounding skeptical. Denise didn’t care for skepticism.———-

***

There, that wasn’t so painful, was it?

Thanks for reading my blog and you all take care.

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The Miracles of Spring

11/6/2016

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Buster Exploring Spring's Gifts

Well, damn it!! I should have used my mouse. You see, yesterday I had, on my little computer, written two blogs. Sometimes this happens. The blog gets very long and then I realize, hey, I have two blogs here and like a squirrel, I squirrel part of the blog away.

Well, this morning, (a gray, dreary morning, I must add), I sat in the living room and began to work on Blog 55. I usually leave my mouse in the office and move things around on my computer by using my finger on the computer’s built-in mouse-pad.

This drab am, I tried to highlight the part of the blog I was going to cut and copy and turn into blog 56. However, I had trouble getting the highlighting to halt where I wanted it to halt so I could cut and copy. So——I decided to hit a key to un-highlight it. Then I planned to fetch little Mickey Mouse from the office and highlight the blog 56 segment by using the mouse.

Well, one big F)(*&^%$ DUH! What key did I hit? No need to tell you, but only to say that the word rhymes with "BEAT".

This is the new Blog 55. Enjoy. I hope!

One evening recently, around ten pm, I stepped out onto our deck. Oh, the sounds, scents and furious busyness that greeted me! It was as if I’d entered a busy perfume department. The trees budding, flowers blooming, wet grass growing, cool mountain breeze blowing, the sound of the swollen, freshly rain-filled river flowing and the riotous mayhem of the peepers hooting it up in our pond. “Oh joy! Hallelujah! Spring has broken out!”

NEW GROWTH IN A TWO-YEAR-OLD CLEAR-CUT

Why it even made me think of the hymn, ‘How Great Thou Art’, I used to hear sung by George Beverly Shea. It also got me thinking about what a co-worker once said to me. ”Being born is like winning the lottery.” Some folks might not agree, but I think most would.

And speaking of the peepers, which I’m sure I had spoken about in my first, now vanished attempt at Blog 55, they were emanating a riot of sound. When Sue, Buster and I were hiking on the road one evening, and the moon had just begun to stick its head up from the top of the basement stairs, the peepers were so loud that I suggested we all wear ear protection the next time we take this walk. Well, maybe not Buster. We all know how Buster reacts to his ears being frigged around with.

Moon Rising Over Mountain

To me, the fact that spring comes every year is a gigantic, in-your-face miracle. So magnificently huge, and yet a large number of people barely give it a thought. Except for the part about it being warmer. Therefore, I sometimes think, because I’m part of the human race, that it's an undeserved miracle. But then again, that’s a rather human-centrist thought. There are more beings than us living on the earth.

Luckily, Spring is gracious in her giving. Even though the human race seems to work so hard to remove the spring from Spring. Economic babble guff goes on and on while the peepers riotously shout, “Bull ship. Bull ship.” Cutting to the chase as our civilization chases the almighty dollar.

                            “There is a glory in the world;
                                        The morning is like wine,
                              And pale ascension lilies lean
                              Like gods who late in heaven have been,
                                         Half flowerlike, half divine.

                             O sweet revival of the grass!
           O sweeter songs that rise,
                             When jocund April leads her train
                             Through the gold sunlight and the rain,
                                         And earth is paradise."

                                                         Charles Hanson Towne, AN APRIL SONG

The Pond Beside Our Driveway

When I see spring ravishing the earth, I think of some of those folks who see life in a dreary, bunker sort of way. Spring must be, in some scrap of their minds, connected to sin. So much colour, scent and noise. With much of this gorgeous spectacle bursting forth because of some previous plant and animal orgy of sordid lustful copulations.

Riotous Dandelions

Oh, they must have some pretty kinky styles, I’d think. But effective. Like the maple trees I planted a few years ago. I think I planted five. I placed them in a field that gets plenty of sun. I’ve since heard that’s not recommended. I was ignorant.

Anyway, this year I walked over to the crowd of growth and located the trees. I saw four. Figured that’s a good result. However, yesterday I made a more careful inspection. I was surprised to see that I’d missed one maple tree. I’d thought that tree had died, but there it was. Except, where I’d planted one maple tree, there were now three small maple trees. Kinky.

A few days ago, Buster jumped up on me. He wanted to go for a drive with us and that’s one of his ways of asking. I looked at his eager, trusting, brown eyes, his little moustache, comically curved paws, his teeth, which stick out over his wee red chin and I said to Sue, “Buster is so cute that maybe we’re committing a sin by enjoying him so much.”

Maritime Mac once said, “When I look at my dog, Buster, I get to thinking that I’m so happy whistling so copiously that I’m going to have to go to confession.” Thus sayeth Maritime.

Maritime Mac sometimes uses big words.

Back from popular demand. The Buster show. See how Buster manipulates his surrogates. It’s all about meals and who is training whom. Our persistent philosophical Buster puzzle. The Buster mealtime conundrum.

This is how it works.

First off, we now realize the our meals have to be tailored, not only to us, but also to Buster.

It all begins with Sue laying the meal out on my plate. It is presented to me, under the watchful eyes of Lord Buster. We usually sit on the couch when we eat. I sit closest to Buster so he gets a better view of my plate and what I’m eating.

I eat my meal. Buster watches. Buster watches. I eat. Buster watches. I break a tiny piece off my meat or fried potato or slice of bread. I offer it to Buster. He eats it or doesn’t. Not eating it is a bad sign. He’s not liking our meal. Eating it is a good omen. He likes our meal.

                         “You gonna eat that?
                                       You gonna eat that?
                                       You gonna eat that?

                                        I’ll eat that.”

                       Karen Shepard, BIRCH

I eat some more. Buster watches while I break off little pieces of carrot, potato, meat, pickle, (Buster likes ketchup), and put them on the side of my plate. When I’ve cleaned off the part of the plate that was ordained for me to eat, I take my plate to his dog dish. His dog dish has dog kibble already poured into it. It is dog food. Buster knows dog food isn’t human food. That’s the rub.

I take my fork and I scrape the remaining bits off my plate and into his dish and then I tap his dish with the fork. I always wondered when my psychology course about Pavlov’s dogs would come in handy. Now I know.

Buster will usually check out his dish after I tap his dish. Then he may drool or not drool. He may eat or not eat. Depends on how hungry he is, I guess.

He may, instead of eating, watch me make my tea. Watch me spread my toast with honey or jam or peanut butter. After which he watches me eat it. I will break off some pieces, like a dutiful master. He watches. When I’m finished, I take the few pieces I've set aside, and I dump them into Buster’s bowl. I tap his bowl with a fork or spoon or knife. He may drool or he may not. He may eat or he may not.

He may, instead, sit on the floor and stare at Sue. Give her a careful scrutiny. Surveying her whole food/eating situation as he looks to see if she has any more food to cough up.

If satisfied that we have both totally finished our meals, Buster will, most likely, not always, but most likely, eat.

He will remove some of the pieces from his bowl and carry them to the rug. Because he is a delicate eater. Some might say a picky eater. And then he’ll eat them like a right proper gentleman.

However, I’ll be damned if I’m going to lay a place for him at the table. Not doing the plate, knife, fork, spoon, maybe a dessert spoon and the napkin thing. Not going to happen.

Besides, we have no room at the table. Sue’s office is spread out all over the table, along with hats, gloves, papers, poop catcher bags, collars, grooming brushes, dog leash snaps, and three or four of Buster’s leashes, in colours of red, green and blue.

No Room for Buster at the Table

Anyway, at one of those three stages, he will usually commence to eat his meal while we hold our communal breath. It is truly pathetic. Isn’t it?

After he finishes eating, do you know what happens? You may have guessed it. I won’t give you the word, but I’ll give you a hint. Buster gets something or two somethings that rhyme with DELETE.

Who runs this forty-five-foot trailer anyway? The whole thing is a pitiable sin.

Lake o' Law...Just down the Road from Middle River

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Zip It Up

16/5/2016

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You know Spring has sprung when you see the coltsfoot blooming. Coltsfoot is a perennial plant that looks similar to a dandelion when it blooms in spring. This wild edible plant is unusual in that the flowers bloom and die before the appearance of any leaves, which earned coltsfoot the name of "son before the father" in earlier times. A decoction is made of 1 oz. of leaves, in 1 quart of water boiled down to a pint, sweetened with honey or liquorice, and taken in teacupful doses frequently. This is good for both colds and asthma. Coltsfoot tea is also made for the same purpose.

Colts Foot

Barry and Larry
were walkin’ down the street.
Barry say, “Larry——--
Look at the dead bird.”
       Larry looks up—                      “Where?”
                          "Larry Sez (...again)" by Glotheri

It was a sunny, but cold Cape Breton day. Not unusual for these here parts. Maritime Mac is getting dressed to go to the grocery store. See Maritime Mac put on his nifty black pants. His cool, brand new, Walmart tee shirt. His hiking boots with two differently coloured laces.

See Buster, Maritime Mac’s pet dog, dance. See him jump. He wants to go with Maritime Mac. So bad!! So friggen bad!!

Maritime snaps on Buster’s fashionable red leash and off they go to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Lake O’Law. Actually, there is no wizard in Lake O’Law, but I couldn’t resist the flow of words.

See the truck bounce through the pot holes and over the bumps. See Buster, Mac’s favourite dog and confidant, enjoying the exciting adventure. Go Bear, Go.

Bear is the name of Maritime Mac’s truck. Bear’s front licence plate has a picture of a polar bear.

Maritime Mac parks Bear next to the pole he usually parks next too. He jumps out of the truck. Tells Buster he’ll be right back.

Maritime Mac marches proudly across the paved parking lot. Smells the Cape Breton Mountain and salty ocean air as he parades forth in his snazzy black attire. Whistles a merry tune as he walks through the automatic doors, grabs a small cart and begins his shopping. A bag of apples, loaf of bread, a pound of butter, shower gel, soup, two big dog bones for Buster Boy and of course Maritime’s two cans of Bud Light.

Last Year's Apple

But, oh my, he can’t get into the cooler. A woman who works in the store, is leaning on her cart, blocking Maritime’s access to the magic cans. She’s gossiping with another employee.

Maritime Mac sniffs. Coughs. Clears his throat. The woman finally spots him. Maritime Mac is surprised at the colour of her face. Maybe she’d visited the tropics or has high blood pressure. Her face is really quite red.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, as she backs up, so Maritime can get into the cooler.

“That’s quite all right, ma'am”, Maritime says. He feels that his clothing decor is best accented by his super polite response to this red-faced woman.

See Maritime Mac put the beer cans into the cart. See him wheel the cart to the check-out counter where he enters the line-up, and then is happily surprised to hear another check-out lady say, “I can help you over here, sir.”

Maritime Mac pushes his cart to the other cashier.

“Thank-you very much, my dear,” he says. Words to go with his spiffy clothes.

This woman’s face is also extremely red.

“Maybe they all went on a group tour to the tropics,” Maritime thinks. “Maybe the lighting has been changed in here and that’s why their faces look all rouged up,” he also thinks.

Maritime Mac raises his head and looks up at the ceiling. The lights are a yellowish-white colour. No red luminescence shines down from on high.

Maritime Mac pays with cash. The cashier bags his supplies. He thanks her in as dignified a way as he can.

Maritime Mac walks proudly across the parking lot, bags of groceries in hand. The highlands are still as misty and beautiful as ever as Maritime Mac marches towards a patiently waiting Buster.

Maritime wonders why the breeze feels so cold, so intimate and personal as he saunters across the concrete parking lot. Is curious why the wind feels like it’s blowing down his legs. Inside his pants. To the very tips of his toes. To provinces best left unspoken.

See Maritime Mac look down. See the uncool, not spiffy nor fashionable shock of brilliant red, light up his face as he spots the gaping hole, outlined by the gleaming zipper, shining forth from his cold crotch. Oh, god! All that time in a public space and he’s been flying half-mast to a cold north wind.

Why the hell didn’t some kind, compassionate and empathetic soul not do what they used to do when Maritime Mac was a kid? You ask a person, who is sucking wind in all the wrong places, this important question: “What do airplanes do?”

The answer, which every kid knew, was to say, “They fly.” Then you tell the poor chap, that his fly was down. Yuk, yuk, yuk.

See Maritime Mac zip up and then run like an embarrassed dingo. See him fling his groceries into the back of the truck. See him start his truck and drive hell-bent for home. See Buster’s tail waving wildly in the wind. See his treat treasure wiggling and waggling out of his mouth like an unlit cigar.

Maritime is not happy that he solved the red-faces-in-the-grocery-store puzzle.

Not only that, but Maritime Mac later learned that his careless firing of the groceries into the back of Bear, in his effort to escape to a place where he could erase the red from his face, had broken one of the cans of beer.

See Maritime Mac, wiping the beer off Bear’s floor. Poor, spiffy dressed, embarrassed, Maritime Mac.

“Woof, woof,” Buster says. Which, translated from Canine, means, “Thank-you, thank-you, oh great red-faced master.”

***

Speaking of a dog named Buster, we also have a dog named Buster. What a coincidence, eh?

Anyway, last week we took Buster to the vet to get his ears treated and his buster shots. I’m sorry, I mean booster shots.

Buster has learned a few lessons since the last time he was at the vet's. He now wants out of the waiting room and not into the waiting room. That is a big change.

Anyway, they weighed Buster and the huge scales showed he’d gained a few pounds. Hard to see why unless he is getting too many treats. Very possible.

You see, Buster has a recurring yeast infection in his ears. Sue can relate very well to Buster’s problem, so she is quite keen to get Buster to the vet when he has this ailment.

The situation is this. Buster hates us touching his ears. He hates anybody touching his ears. So, he bites and he bites mighty hard. He also chomps mighty enthusiastically when somebody fools around with his arse end or tries to clip his nails. Buster has a very solid set of personal boundaries that you cross at your peril.

So, we waited for the vet in a tiny room with a shiny table. We waited about ten minute. All this time, Buster, poor Buster, was shaking.

Then the vet walked in, wearing his long white coat. I picked Buster up and plopped him down on the table.

After we all gave our polite salutations, which is what most people do, the vet looked at Buster and said, and I quote, “I remember you.”

Now we have Buster shaking and the vet shaking.

Well, I won’t go into much more detail but for two points.

Point one: We were quite nervous about having to treat Buster for the yeast infection because it meant we were going to have to daily try to apply the prescribed drops to Buster’s ears. Why, the very thought was enough to send us into involuntary jitterbugging spasms.

However, the vet had some really, really super great news. He informed us that they now have a new medication which only involves two treatments, a week apart. And the vet does the treatments! This is really, really joyous news. Because we don’t have to try to treat Buster’s ears any more. Just two trips to the vet and that will be it.

And point two: When I held Buster down so the vet could look into his ears, we all learned together that Buster doesn’t necessarily growl before he attacks. It was a Buster surgical biting blitzkrieg and he did manage to get a microscopic piece of the vet's finger. A wee treat, so to speak.

In summary, Buster was muzzled, and he got his ears de-yeasted, his three booster pokes and another appointment for next Wednesday.

I might phone in sick from a yeast infection.

Interesting Fungus on One of our Trees

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