A New Year's Poem

Forget Brexit, and block out Trump

Sunrise over Annapolis Royal, Christmas Day, 2018

The world abounds with hate and greed

Wisdom wanes as tolerance slumps

What a mess we have indeed

Forget the wars and all the drought

Tsunamis, eruptions of any kind

There’s lots to do without a doubt

There’s much that troubles a caring mind

Right here at home there’s such great need

In our backyards or close at hand

There’s shelters to build and kids to feed

And much to do in this great land

The aged need care and our respect

The poor are all around we know

It’s time to do, not just reflect

The seed of kindness we must sow.

The world’s in motion, such disarray

Change is coming at quickened pace

This challenge will not go away

We must prepare and then embrace.

A Toast to the Season

This is our first Christmas season at home in nine years. It is also our first Christmas season in Nova Scotia and in our new home. So, we have been getting our fill of Christmassy things. This includes lots of music: Celtic music at the local brew pub, Blues and Country at another nearby pub, a classical trio concert with a novel twist at a gallery, two choral concerts, one traditional and one not-so, and an evening of seasonal classical and contemporary guitar and vocal music at the local theatre. We have, ourselves, participated in two benefits for local food banks, one on the Fundy Shore and one on the Atlantic shore of Nova Scotia.

The other evening we were at one of these pubs to hear a number of musicians, one of whom we knew, play a mix of secular and spiritual Christmas music mixed in with some old time blues and folk. It was a very festive event. We even donned silly hats. 

Of course, the Christmas season is a time for giving and for being grateful, whether or not one is of a religious bent. It is the time of the Winter Solstice, the marking of the return of the sun northward and of increasing daylight. It is a time for reflection and new beginnings.

After our meal, and a good amount of music it was also time for us to head home. The lead musicians were taking a break and a fresh group of them was about to play a set.  I returned our loaned hats. John went to the bar to pay our tab.

One of the female musicians was a wonderful mandolin player. People seemed to know her, but we did not. During the break she was already at the bar getting a beer when John went up to pay.  The bartender handed her her beer and then asked John what he would like. John said: “I’m paying”. On hearing these words, the musician turned without hesitation to John and said “Thank you very much”, shook his hand and as she left: “Merry Christmas”.

John wasn’t sure what had just happened. Had she been joking? The bartender asked John if she should add this to his tab, or did he want to pay separately. John laughed and said: I’ll pay now.

Sometimes good deeds are thrust upon us.

Watching

I am not sure I had thought about what wildlife we might see here on the Annapolis Basin. We don’t see the bear and the coyotes or wolves we used to see at our former home in the Northumberland Hills of Ontario. We do see the deer in the vicinity; but not from our windows as we had been accustomed to. But we see amazing creatures… many of them feathered. And this magnificent bird appeared in our tree outside our rear living room this morning as I was doing my ritual exercises.

It sat there for a good 45 minutes, looking around patiently. Watching. Being watched. Snowflakes drifting by. The tide receding. The sun hinting at possible appearance.

It wasn't it's first appearance. We've seen it on our beach this past spring and early summer. It has flown over our deck this fall. There are at least two of them about. Hovering over the water. Taunted by the gulls. Giving us delight.

Oh oh Christmas Tree

This is to be our first Christmas season at home for almost a decade. And it will, of course, be our first in Nova Scotia.

My beloved is beloved of all things Christmas. If he could, he would celebrate 365 days a year. So when he said he wanted a real tree and a cut our own tree, I reluctantly went along. When he said he wanted it up and decorated on November 30. I reluctantly went along. My real concern is being bored with all things Christmas before December 25.

So off we drove to the tree farm I had found on line. I had emailed to make sure they would be open. So many on line results are old ones I have found. And things do change in the real world. I had the address right. I had the days of being open right. What I did not have right was the fact that we had arrived an hour and a half before opening and no one was there to listen to our plea for indulgence.

Fortunately, some people were walking a dog in the field nearby. And they told us of another farm just a few kilometres away. Off we drove. We found the place and it was open, although being mid-week, we were the only customers. We were directed by the farmer to the field across the road. There was a lane into it. The field was soggy, but with four-wheel drive we managed to enter. We trudged through, dodging puddles and small ponds until we found the perfect tree. It had been well pruned, was tall and fulsome.

We had brought along our trusty saw. It has cut down many a tree, and sawed off many a branch. Trusty, old and dull as it is.

The chosen tree’s trunk was unusually thick at the ground level. We took turns grunting, trying to keep from getting too wet, which meant bending awkwardly rather than kneeling in the drenched, muddy earth. One sawed, one yanked and finally the tree was free. We had brought twine to wrap it enough to fit into the back of our SUV. After all, we are old hands at cutting Christmas trees, even if it has been a very long time since we have done it.

We had even brought the new galvanized pail along that it would eventually be secured into for the duration. And of course our favourite hand pruning clippers were inside the pail too. Why either of these items were with us at this stage of the process, I am not sure. Unfortunately, the pail and its contents had to be removed from the car in order to get the tree in place. Meanwhile the pail and clippers we set on the ground beside the car. And there they remained as we drove away enjoying the pleasing scent of the freshly cut tree and delighted at our catch. Neither one of us noticed the missing items until we got home, far away from that soggy field. Perhaps the pail is still sitting there. Perhaps the friendly farmer found it and is wondering how it got there.

On the appointed day of erection, the tree was tested in the brand new galvanized pail that we had purchased upon realizing our loss. It fit just perfectly. No need to reduce its height. A few lower branches had to be cut off, however, so that it could nestle into the bottom. The pail was quickly tested for its water retaining capability. And we were ready to get to work.

A mat was set on the lovely pine floor. A plastic cover was set over it and the tree was inserted into the pail, which had been placed on the carefully prepared covering.

Rocks from our beach had been gathered at low tide the day before. These were artfully inserted one by one into the pail by John as I held the tree upright. The tree was now secure and in place. And the ritual decoration began.

Four strings of new lights were wound carefully around the tree from top to bottom. Our abundant hand-painted wooden decorations, collected over 37 years from around the world, were carefully hung from the branches. These had not seen the light of day for many years. And as each was unwrapped from its paper nest, we greeted it like a long lost friend.

Once the decoration was complete, an inspection made, and the result approved, the pail was filled with water to feed the thirsty tree and keep it fresh for the next month. And the lights were lit. Spectacular!

Before the finishing touch could be applied, a broom and dust pan were brought out so that I could sweep up the fallen needles from around the tree. We would then lay the red paper to finish off the floor covering. Down I got on my knees with dustpan and brush – My heart stopped. Time stopped. It was true: water was seeping out of the pail, slowly it seemed as it had not yet left the plastic for the floor. Panic!

We had to edge the laden tree, offending pail and mat toward the centre of the room where the ceiling was high enough to remove the tree from the pail, after removing each carefully inserted rock. Then we had to carefully lift the tree and shift it beside the pail without tipping either. A few of the ornaments fell indignantly to the floor nonetheless.

As I stood holding the tree in as vertical a position as I could manage, John took the dripping pail outside and dumped the water out. I remained holding the tree for some time as he completed some mopping up. Then he went in search of a plastic bucket, which thankfully fit perfectly inside the defective galvanized one.

The rocks were inserted once again. The tree was now secure once more. Then, carefully the whole package was shifted inch by inch back into its place in the corner of the room. Jug by jug the plastic insert was filled with water. We held our breath. And now the tree stands, we hope, set, secure and lovely.

Our backs, unfortunately have suffered, our muscles ache and exhaustion has set in. But we, like the tree, will recover. Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas Tree.

Waking

Tell me that my eyes are dreaming

As I look up from my nighttime rest

The snow that lies upon the rooftop

Can’t be surely what it’s seeming.

I thought that this was not to be

Until the festive season passed

And winter’s fury would be tempered

In this valley by the sea.

But nature will not be controlled

We suffer what it has to offer

Good or bad will be our fate

Be it wet or not or hot or cold.

Outside My Window

Last evening it was pouring rain and at 9:00 p.m. the temperature outside had climbed to 9.5 Celsius. This morning we awoke to a fierce wind, a smattering of ice pellets on the ground and a frigid -3 Celsius. By the afternoon, I needed fresh air and a walk. I bundled up and headed out the front door. A metal pot of greenery had been toppled. It was bone chilling and the trees groaned and cracked in the wind. There were ice puddles on the ground, although the sun tried to pierce the cloud cover. 

When I got home, my face red, my spine chilled, a cup of hot tea and honey was a most welcome beverage. I lay on the couch in the back room and looked out the windows at the sky and the bare branches of the maple trees. Suddenly there was a graceful flash and landing of a very large bird on one of the larger limbs. It certainly was not a crow. Nor was it quite big enough to be an eagle. It sat there for the longest time, turning its head slowly, purposefully, from side to side. It was definitely a hawk – a very large one.

I hesitated to go and get my camera, because I was sure it would soon be gone. But it lingered. I retreated to the other room to find my camera and took a picture of it from the kitchen window; then I returned to the back room and took a closer picture from a window there. Finally, I heaved against the force of the wind and opened the door to the deck and took yet another much closer picture. Stunning.

Three Boats

Most evenings we will sit in our rear living room, which has been known as the Great Room. We find that name somewhat pretentious. Last night I offered the suggestion of naming it La Salla del Mer or Seaview Room. Perhaps equally pretentious. For now the rear living room will do.

Room name aside, we sit and look out over the tidal river at the mouth of the Annapolis Basin. Across the water is the historic town of Annapolis Royal. It is debatable as to whether our view of that town or their view of our historic village is the better one. Both are lovely.

But our sightline is that of the older lower town, where most of the houses are designated as historical. They line up in various colours and shapes and sizes as neatly as the model villages I created for my childhood train set. When I look at them from the comfort of our fireside, it is as if I am a child looking wide-eyed through a frosted store window at the display of a perfect model village with its tree lined streets and tiny perfect buildings. What is missing is the little steam engine I loved so much with its carriages circling by, into and out of tunnels created in papier-mâché hills, with their tiny hand painted cows and sheep grazing. Just as that treasured childhood train set has long since disappeared, long gone are the trains that frequented the harbour across the water in the 1800 and early 1900s.

But wonder of wonders; the train is replaced in my vision by three fishing boats lined up at the wharf. One is in dry dock being repaired. The others sit waiting, nestled against the pier, sometimes floating high and sometimes sitting on dry land. The gulls screech overhead, a heron parades on the shore and an eagle flies majestically by with a fish in its claws. The clouds come and go, shaping my perception as they change the horizon. I am not looking at a model village. I am looking at life by the sea. And it is wonderful.

On Being Butch

Two days of hurricane force winds and heavy rain, pounded our home on the shores of the Annapolis Basin. The new windows recently installed were battered and breathed with the wind but, fortunately, remained secure. And apart from three toppled Muskoka chairs and canoe, a torn flag and a missing garbage container lid, the only potentially serious damage to our home was two tiles blown off the turret roof peak. 

Now being a man of many talents, I determined that I could easily repair the roof tiles by putting up our extension ladder and reaching over from one of the top rungs. With the aid of John, the ladder was erected to its maximum height. I collected a hammer from the basement, and some roofing nails that I had earlier located in a bag on the basement shelf. I put hammer into my belt, the nails into a waist satchel and the two tiles, which had been retrieved from quite different locations, into a cloth bag. Looking the part, I then started the long climb, much to the chagrin of John who stood looking up as if it might be my final ascent into heaven.

Now no fool am I, though I may appear to be one from time to time. As I arrived at what I assessed to be my maximum safe mount, reached unsteadily as far as I dared, and felt the ladder wobble just a little, I closed my eyes, inhaled and quickly descended. Without stopping, I walked into the house, went directly to the nearest telephone and called a young contractor who had recently done some work in our house. John was visibly relieved but dared not utter “I told you so”. 

Shortly afterwards, the contractor stopped by on his way to another job and in less than five minutes he had the job done. And a good thing too, as the rains would soon start again.

Not to let my macho imagine settle too long in the mire, I got out the chainsaw and cleared some branches and limbs off several of the trees on our property line. A job well done. My hardy image almost in tact.

A Real LIFT

We left Granville Ferry on a chilly 2 degree Celsius morning to cross what is called the South Mountain for the Atlantic coast of Nova Scotia. As we climbed the mount the temperature gradually dropped to Zero. The rain showers turned to sleet and there was a gentle covering of snow on the ground near the ultimate height. But as we descended again toward our destination of Liverpool, the temperature climbed again to 3C. Liverpool is a town that sits at the mouth of, coincidentally, the Mersey River, where fishing and other vessels find shelter.

The reason for our journey was the Liverpool International Theatre Festival (LIFT) at the historic Astor Theatre, which has been held in this seaside community every second year for 14 festival seasons. Although called an “amateur” theatre festival, the quality of acting in many cases was that of a trained professional. The genre of works varied immensely. 

This is a juried event; but personally speaking, given the wide range of styles of theatre, there can be no real winners or losers. The task of picking best show, or best actor there is of a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey nature. Shows were both verbal and non-verbal, classical and avant-garde, and they ranged from two performers to eleven. And, of course, shows were performed in the native language of the performers.

What is remarkable about such events is the diversity of people who travel at considerable expense from far across the globe to a small Nova Scotia town. In addition to one Nova Scotia entry, troupes came from Egypt, Nepal, Bangladesh, Iran, Mexico, Peru and Wales. The Iranian troupe was dramatically cut down from about seven members to two by immigration problems in Turkey. Unfortunately, this meant a scramble to produce a different show than the one they had prepared for. It was a challenge well met. An East African troupe and the Chinese troupe could not get Visas and so cancelled at the last minute. As an outsider, one can only speculate about the issues that caused these problems.

What is also remarkable is the amount of volunteer work that went into transporting, housing, feeding and entertaining these strangers in a strange land. Of course, with different cultural norms, and by reason of the sheer size of the undertaking there were hiccups in the process; but it was clear to me that a majority of the visitors and the local inhabitants were having a wonderful time – and this despite language barriers and the uncertainnty of late October Nova Scotia weather.

Four days of indulging in fine theatrical art, was both fulfilling and exhausting – even for an audience. But our journey home across the South Mountain was in joyful sunshine and lined with trees still vibrant with autumn colour. It is always good to be home again.

Delaps Cove

There is a sweet musty smell pervading the woods at this time of year. The forest floor is carpeted with leaves in a rich dappled array of colours. The ferns are a lush golden brown. The fact that the leaves are now falling means the canopy overhead is much less dense. The light filters through in a more pronounced manner. The sound of silence is pervading… a crack here, a rustle there.

Today we went for our first walk on the nearby Delaps Cove Wilderness Trail … or I should say, on a part of it. The pathway wound through the woods and down the hill to the shore cliffs. There the mighty Bay of Fundy greeted us with its steady waves crashing into the rocks. These seemed to be a compression of smaller boulders fashioned over the timeless ages. The path then took us along the cliff edge and up into a deep cove. This might have been in some faraway and exotic land. There the sound and sight of a steady waterfall cascading down the cliff edge met us. Far below was a rocky beach that is no doubt covered by the high tides of this Bay of Fundy.

We did not have the time to take the longer route to the other trail loop. Next time we will be sure to make the time.

Autumn's Lure

Yesterday I saw a loon swimming off our shore

This is not a usual sight in summertime

But summer has passed us now

And autumn’s crisp days are with us once more

Bringing vibrant colours to the wooded hill

So loons move then from lakes to the salty sea

And I from hours outside to window views

And to chase away the evening’s chill

I once again light the waiting fire

And don a sweater and long pants

Which know nothing of the month’s gone by

When scant clothes were all I did require.

Yet autumn has a bold and breathless charm

The air is fresh with scent of fallen leaves

The silence of the woods is loud indeed

As nature settles down in restful calm.

Heron Today

Perhaps there is nothing that unusual about seeing a heron on our Nova Scotia shore. However, they always fascinate me. Their stillness. Their grace. Their cautious attention to the micro world around them. And the stillness is catching. It is a meditation. A source of calm.

Two Eagles

Two eagles landed on our morning shore

As the tide receded from the slippery rocks

Shoeless I sped out the waiting door

Where steady rain drenched my ageing locks.

I spied them, hushed by solemn calm

As stillness filled the air around

No motion should cause undue alarm

Just being there without a sound.

They sat upon their perch with watchful eyes

Like statues carved without a flaw

Then one took flight into the misty skies

While I simply gazed in silent awe.

Its wings spread wide, its tail spread white

It floated upward with strength and ease

And quickly it was gone from sight

Its purpose other than to please.

The other lingered for yet a while it seemed

Then suddenly it too was gone away

As if I’d wakened from a welcome dream

With a wondrous beginning to a rainy day.

Smoked Fish

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. We were away from our new home in Nova Scotia for most of the summer. We have now been home again for several weeks. “Home”. What a word. What a feeling. Comfort, sanctuary, haven.

Earlier this week we needed seafood for a special event that we would be hosting. We had bought much of it already, but we needed some smoked fish to add to the medley. We drove over the North Mountain to the Bay of Fundy just a short distance from our house on the Annapolis River. There is a harbour there for fishing boats and across the road, a fish store. As we crested the mountain we could clearly see New Brunswick, its hills and even its buildings in Saint John. Although it is a two and one half hour boat trip away, it appeared as if an easy swim would reach the other shore. However, when we descended, all that was visible was the very tops of those distant hills, confirming that the world really is round.

The tide was out; so the fishing boats in the harbour were all on dry land. The abundant huts there are all brightly painted in a rainbow of colours. It is magical.

Unfortunately, there was no smoked fish at the store across the road. I desperately wanted some for the chowder I was preparing. It gives the hint of a rich smoky flavour. The woman who tends the store said she thought there was a smoke house just down the road a few minutes away. She went to inquire and came back with instructions on how to find the place.

Off we went around corners and up and down hills along the coast. A gravel road down toward the sea indicated the destination. The plant looked abandoned, but there were a couple of vehicles there. That delightful smoky scent was in the air. But we could see no one. There were three buildings very much time worn in appearance. There was the almost eerie feeling of better days gone by.

Then, as if by enchantment, a ghostly, silent, tall and lean figure appeared by the most distant building. He did not look up. He did not make a sound. Was he real? Was he a phantom from another age? He was wearing a white coat. His head hair bore a blue covering. And there was even a covering over what we later discovered was a long beard. He was loading fish into barrels and shoveling great loads of salt on top. One other similarly clad individual appeared next. He was short and heavy and looked like Disney’s Grumpy. He seemed shy. He spoke, but it was an incomprehensible collection of vowels.

We went closer. My partner is more forward than I at such times. He inquired of the person if they had smoked fish. He pointed into the building. A jolly fellow then appeared on a fork lift attired in much the same way. He was delightfully elfin. And he was in no hurry to answer our inquiry. Once he had done what he was up to, however, he did. We stood there and listened. Then he moved away. “Were we to follow”, we called out. “Yes”, he replied. “Come along”, and so we scurried along behind him. He asked us inquisitively about ourselves. He sauntered over to the building closest to where we had left our car, chattering in a musical dialect all the time. Some of it we understood, much of it we did not. He did not know if he had any smoked fish to give up. He had to complete the year’s work in a few weeks. He was a busy lad.

The building we then entered had counters along the edges and down the middle of the room a long trough sat. This was obviously where the fish were cleaned. The trough was empty and so also the room. Eventually, after washing his hands, the fellow went over to a counter where he pulled out a box. He opened it, all the while indicating he did not know what he if anything he might find there. Then he pulled out one large frozen smoked haddock fillet. I eyed it. That would do. A pause. Then he pulled out another, and another, and another and finally a fifth fillet, which he plopped down with a grin on his face. There. “Would that do?” “Yes”, I said. For who knows when one would come across such wonderful smoked fish. Was twenty dollars too much, he asked. I quickly pulled out the money and assured him that it was fine.

Then he asked us if we wanted to see the smoke house. Of course. This was a once in a lifetime experience. When would the illusion end. The illusion of being in some mystical realm was aided by the mist hanging over venue. We walked with him to the middle building. He opened a creaking door. Were we about to be murdered and disposed of? A fleeting thought.

Inside the large building were nineteen bays behind large closed doors. The sweet smell of smoke hung in the air. Chattering all the time, our guide opened one of these doors. There, hung on racks, were hundreds of smoked fish, richly golden and oily in colour. Beneath was a deep pit where the fires were lit during the smoking. Each bay held five thousand pounds of fish that would, when ready, be barreled, salted and shipped to distant lands.

All the while it seemed that we were living a dream. Would we wake up? No, this was wonderfully real. And the fish was just what I needed to create a sumptuous feast.