Hinterland Who's Who

They came swooping down out of the sky, performing a ballet so in sync with each other's moves, it seemed to be professionally choreographed.  Saturday marked the return of the Osprey and what must be the beginning of their mating season.  Two beautiful birds chased each other up and down, side to side, swooping and swishing, gliding, diving and soaring over our heads.  It was an amazing sight to behold - their dance, simply magical.  That is, until a third Osprey came racing from its nest behind our neighbour's house to chase the two dancing birds away from what can only be perceived as his neck of the woods.

No sooner had this lone bird chased the intruders away, then he swooped low over the southern side of our yard, past the apple orchard and landed directly behind the Virgin Mary tree stump.  He did two quick fly-bys and then WOOSH, he came in for a landing.  Except that he didn't land at all.  He merely swooped down and gathered something up in his talons and took flight again, returning to his nest for lunch.  We think he might have enjoyed partridge for lunch.  We hope not, but our flock of partridges have lately taken up residence in evergreen corner, right by the Virgin Mary.  We had a family of 8...I fear it may only be a family of 7 now.

Three Ospreys and two hawks circled between our yard, the back field and our neighbour's yard that day.  The sun caught the silver underside of the hawk as it hovered above our yard looking for prey.  The osprey found nourishment with the partridge family.  Lucky for us that the Gidget was inside for most of this show - otherwise she could have ended up as someone's mid-day meal.  And as cranky as she is, and as often as I think of divesting myself of this little she-devil, I think it would be an awful way for her to go - as someone's fly-through snack.

On Sunday we were here:

When we saw this:

One Week

It started as a love letter to Canada and for me, it ended with a teary-eyed mess in the car on the ride home.  Last night we went to see the movie "One Week" a movie that has been advertised here as a "love letter to Canada."  It's a story about a young man, 3-months away from his wedding, having been diagnosed with stage-4 cancer, who packs up his saddle bag, straddles his newly purchased vintage Norton motorcycle and begins a cross-country road trip from Toronto to Tofino, transversing 2/3s of the vastness that is Canada.  I'm a sucker for a road trip - whether taking to the road myself, or enjoying it vicariously on the big screen so there was no way I was going to miss seeing this movie!

As promised, the scenery was spectacular.  The main character, a fine and healthy looking young man is literally a ticking clock who snaps pictures along the way at every oversized monument between the Muskokas and the surf-shacks on BC's western most coast.   The Big Nickle in Sudbury, the Giant Goose in Wawa, and the World's Largest TeePee in Alberta are as much a part of our national landscape as the great Canadian Shield and the boreal forest, and through his photos they become secondary characters in this movie. 

I was prepared for this story.  I had seen enough trailers to know what to expect.   I was prepared for the plot line of him questioning the validity of everything in his life while he struggled to live fully before he started treatment...before he became a patient.   I was prepared for the take-your-breath-away scenery...of the prairies at dawn, of the lakes of northern Ontario at sunset.  I waited with anticipation for shots of the Rockies and of my favourite city in the whole world, Vancouver.  I was richly rewarded.  The movie is Canadian eye-candy at its best.

We both really enjoyed the movie - the perfect way to cap off a perfect Spring Saturday.  As we began driving home I asked Dwayne the question that is posed at the end of the movie:  "If you only had one day, one week, one month to live - what would you do?  What life hold would you grab on to?  What wish would you fulfill?  What's the minimum in life?"

I hate to say that I wasn't entirely actively listening to Dwayne's response (he said something about a trip to Ontario & Kelowna), because I was busy thinking about how I would answer that question myself.  That's when the tears began.  It is an overwhelming question that could not be easily answered.  It's not as simple as I'd pack up and go to Italy and eat fresh pasta everyday (although that would be fun and certainly very, very high on my list).  It's not as simple as you would think.  And for someone like me who is SELDOM at a loss for words, not being able to articulate an answer was rather surprising to my husband and me! 

Which brings me to the interactive portion of this blog, dear internet.  Yes, this is where you get to weigh in.   Click on comments to answer the question I pose to you - "If you only had one day, one week, one month to live - what would you do?  What life-hold would you grab on to?  What wish would you fulfill?  What's the minimum in life?"

If you've never driven across Canada (or even if you have), this is a must see movie.  If you love road trips, this is a must see movie.  If you love Canada, this is a must see movie.  

Windows on the World

In return for soldiering on through the LONGEST WINTER IN HISTORY, today Karma has smiled down upon us and rewarded us with the promise of Spring.  Warm, gentle breezes, BIG blue sky, 20-degrees and blooms, blossoms, buds and did I mention BLOOMS are popping up all over our property!

 After hibernating all winter, this morning I could not get my cleaning bucket out fast enough  to wash down all my windows.  I unleashed my inner domestic goddess and scrubbed and polished every window within an inch of its life, erasing 6 months of wind, rain, snow and dirt and in some cases, dog snout snot.  It's nice to be able to see out of them again, because once I could actually see out the windows, I noticed that OH MY GOD - not only are my crocuses up, but tulips and daffodils are on their way too.

My heart did a little jump for joy when, upon closer inspection of my flower beds, I discovered that not only did I survive THE LONGEST WINTER EVER, but so did my clematis and lilacs.  The tender shoots of my hydrangea are just starting to poke up and dare I say it, but so did the pretty yellow shrub that I can't remember the name of - it's doing okay too and is just covered with tiny little buds.  And so are my peonies.  My second most favourite flower ever, I planted two bushes last spring and patiently waited for their big, showy flowers to appear in July.  Um, ya, not so much.  Evidently peonies don't flower the first year they're planted, but guess what?  That's right, this is YEAR NO. 2 so I fully expect to see big, braggadocious, bold and showy pink flowers this year.  

We spent our morning cleaning up the detritus that landed in our yard over the winter - fallen, dead branches, entire boughs of evergreen trees, a dead mouse or two and even an empty Guinness bottle we think was left-over from our wedding last August.  We pulled deadfall out of the ground and cut back some of our perennials.  We raked and we swept and we congratulated ourselves for delivering a nicely green lawn so early in the year (as if we had anything to do with it).   We are HOME-OWNERS.  We are LANDSCAPERS.  We will soon be VEGETABLE farmers.  But mostly what we are now is EXHAUSTED.

  

Bunny Food it Ain't

It’s been very hairy around our house the last week or so.  I don’t mean “hairy” as in wild or scary or shocking.  Or, perhaps, maybe I do!?! 

Last week after almost 5 months my husband (FINALLY) went for a haircut.  I know what you’re thinking – most civilized human beings get their hair cut every 5 – 6 weeks.  I know, I know, you’re right!  My husband, however, likes to get a big bang for his buck, so he likes to see how long he can go without a haircut and without the HR Director writing him up for failing the hotel’s grooming policy.  When the "Dippity Do" doesn't,  when it could no longer hold a perfect “gelmet” he decided it was time for a trim.

Rather than going to a barber for a shave & a haircut he goes to a national chain known as “First Choice”.  In our household though, this national chain of hairdressers is known as “Her Choice” because really, it doesn’t matter what you tell the hairdresser, you get whatever cut she feels like giving you that day.  In the past this has meant everything from a nice trim and thinning out to a full on brush cut just mere days before our wedding.  Imagine how happy I was on my wedding day, posing for pictures, standing beside GI Joe with his new buzz cut. 

So last week he goes for a long overdue trim and my final words as he’s heading off are “don’t let them use the #1 blade on you – no buzz cuts or I swear to God, it’s grounds for divorce.”  He really must want to stay married because, indeed, the stylist did not use a #1 blade…or even a #2 blade for that matter.  She just scissored his cut.  Which, when you have enough hair on your head to start your own International Hair Club for Men franchise, a little scissoring is not a real haircut.

So, $15 later he comes home sporting what can only be referred to as “Hockey Hair.”  You know what I’m talking about right…all business in the front, party in the back.  Yes, my dear internet, my husband is sporting a modified mullet.  I can hear the groaning from you as I type this…I know, I know!  I’ve got my very own Billie Ray Cyrus right here in my kitchen. 

His new haircut elicted the following conversation this morning:

“Um, you know if you had gone back the next day they would have corrected your cut at no cost – it’s the hairdresser’s credo, you know”.

“I didn’t have time!  Besides, I like my hockey hair.”

“It looks more like 70’s Porn Star Hair if you ask me”

“I didn’t ask you.  It’s hockey hair – you know, the kind that attracts all the Puck Bunnies.  I used to wear my hair this way when I played hockey.  All the Puck Bunnies loved it, I don’t know why you don’t.”

“Did you get a lot of action with those Puck Bunnies?”

“None.”

“My point exactly.”

I’m really hoping that when he reads this blog that his very next step will be to make an appointment for further lid alteration.  At least before our vacation.  We can’t risk showing up in Nashville with him looking like Billie Ray Cyrus.

 

Meandering

The exhaustion continues.  I was so tired yesterday I didn't have the energy to write about the pictures I posted.  Hence the invention of Wordless Wednesday, my "get out of writing" free card that I can invoke whenever the exhaustion becomes more than bone-crushing (like yesterday) or days when the words just won't come.  

For those of you wondering, the pictures I posted were taken in April 2007, during what we lovingly refer to as our "trip of a lifetime".  It really was with stops in such incredible places as Monte Carlo, Florence, Rome & Paris - the romance capitals of Europe!   

We took lots and lots of photos while overseas, as is evidenced in the 3 CDs, 4 flash drives and 1 hard drive that house all these photos.  Typical tourists, we snapped pictures of monuments, landmarks, landscapes and each other.  What we don't have in the 1,298 pictures of that trip are very many pictures of the two of us together.  Seems we're shy tourists and didn't want to ask anyone to touch our camera and take our pictures.  So, many of the shots we do have of us together are taken by one of us, arm outstretched, hoping like hell that the lens is actually focused on us and not at the top of our heads.

Looking back at these photos makes me realize just how much we love to travel together.  You know you've met the perfect mate if you can travel with him.  And if you can travel internationally together without killing each other or getting arrested and thrown into one of those scary "Midnight Express" jails, well - all the better.   It really was one of the litmus tests I used in evaluating my relationship with the man I would eventually marry.  Was he able to navigate foreign train timetables?  Could he find me a bathroom on a moment's notice when he doesn't speak the language?  Was he willing to immerse himself in the local culture?  You know, the ahem "when in Rome" clause (pun intended).    Thankfully, he passed with more than flying colours; he even managed to overlook my Parisian temper tantrum and I eventually got over whatever the big deal was that so chapped my fanny so we could continue our stay in the city of lights.

We've got itchy feet these days...it's what happens to us when we're ready to make a break for the border and explore some foreign soil.  Passports have been renewed.  Map books have been purchased.  GPS systems are being programmed.  Dog-sitters are being sought.    Soon we're leaving on vacation and it really can't come a moment too soon.  We haven't really had a true vacation since that trip of a lifetime 2 years ago.  Not even a honeymoon.  No, the 3-hour deep-sea fishing trip does not count as our honeymoon cruise!   

The countdown is on...T-minus 24 and counting! 

Wordless Wednesday

As Tired as a Bull Elk at the End of the Rut

Oh.  My.  God.  I cannot remember a time when I've been as tired as I have been the last month.  Do you think it's coincidence that my level of exhaustion escalated right at the same time I began teaching?  Me thinks not.

I'm not talking, oh, gee, I could use a brief nap tired.  I'm talking aching in my bones, complete and utter exhaustion.  T.I.R.E.D.  So tired that I can sit down to write and start to doze off with my fingers on the keyboard.  So tired that no amount of sleeping in will make up for the level of tired I feel.  So tired that I feel like a bull elk at the end of the rut.  Say it with me now...T.I.R.E.D!

When we lived in the Rockies we could measure the changing of seasons with the habits of the local wildlife:  newborn elk and wapiti deer calves in the spring, golfing with Grizzleys in the early summer, the call of the wolves and coyotes all summer long.  Most memorable for me, however,  was the 6-8 week period between late August and early October when the male elk enjoyed the ungulate version of Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale.  That's right - for 6-8 weeks these big boys lived with the singleminded goal of getting laid as often as possible.   No beer required.

Anyway, this time of year is known as "the rut".  It's an apt description really - big racked bulls roaming the park, lookin' for love in all the wrong places.  Yes, those stupid bulls have been known to try to mount just about any object that doesn't mount them first, including pick-up trucks, trees, and the occasional tourist that got too close with their digital camera!  

They'd roam the park shepherding their herd of cows from one love shack to the next.  Not only is a male's virility judged by the size of his antler rack, but also by the number of ladies he has in his harem.   So those big boys would roam the park with their harem in tow, gettin' it on as often as they can.    A bull elk's pick-up line:  a series of shrill bugles - that's right - bugles.  A sound so indescribable, my words won't do it justice, but imagine someone calling reveille every morning, except they do it out of tune without a melody and they do it all day and all night.  An ear-piercing bleating cry that, when sounded outside your bedroom window at 3am, is enough to scare the living crap out of you - but I digress.

You can only imagine the physical and mental state of  a bull at the end of the rut.  He's just spent 8 weeks rounding up his women, keeping them in line, warding off all rivals, getting some nooky as often as he can, as many times a day as possible with as many cows as possible.  All the while keeping the herd on the move.  By the end they are DONE, just DONE.  Except that just like 18-year old boys in Fort Lauderdale in March, they don't know it's 3 a.m. and the bar is closed and it's time to go home.  Those damn bulls keep going...one excruciating step at a time.  So hoarse they can hardly make a sound, let alone bugle for babes.  So exhausted that, even if they round up a willing partner, they're too exhausted to do anything about it.  So done.  Say it with me now - D.O.N.E.

This, dear internet, is how I feel today.