The Gardening Weekend

Last week I committed to an at home writing retreat, in which I promised myself no gardening and no baking. Well I got a great bit of writing done, not vast amounts but good insights into a large project I have been working on. I did break my promise to myself and picked rhubarb (gardening) and made a rhubarb pie (baking).

This weekend the sun has been blazing and we are promised a ton of rain on Monday, and have been getting loads of rain and cool weather over the past month. This hasn’t been great for the farmers or my own little amount of edible crops but it has kept the flowers in sort of a slow development. The lilacs have lasted longer it seems, and I now think that many of my flowers are going to all bloom at once, peonies with poppies etc.

I’m not sure what gardening does to the soul. I could say something poetic and philosophical. Come to think of it, it is a bit like writing. Today I did a first draft on part of the property, “editing” unwanted stuff growing beneath other stuff and crowding out things I had planted. I am content to leave things as they are for the moment, and go back for the next edit or draft to bring things closer in line with my vision. The whole place is looking a little ratty right now, like a first draft, rough edges, piles of discarded flotsam and flora and freshly planted annuals wondering where the hell to look and how the heck did they land in my garden.

I have a feeling that after the rain tomorrow things will look and feel a little more fitting, a little more as if they belonged.

Anyway what I love about this ain’t philosophical: Right now my shins and arms are torn to shreds — the dog won’t stop licking my wounds — from thorns and wild raspberries, and before I had a shower I was positively filthy, leaves and cedar things clinging to my hair, my feet black, even in my gardening shoes — fingernails and toenails caked with soil, my back was covered in sweat to which more wood like things and debris had adhered.

So this brings us to the absolute joy which is the pleasure and luxury of running a cool shower and scrubbing it all away the best of both worlds, the woodland wild faun, as I fancy myself, and the shaved guy who has to go out into the world on a rainy Monday morning, dreaming of his weekend wrestling with Junipers, Hawthornes, the shears, the lawn mower, gas, extensions cords and a bit of sunburn.

The Gift in a Moment

ice pic 2

Well an afternoon like the one you see in the picture is a little bit like unwrapping a really fabulous present. We have warnings of harsh weather yet to come, somewhere way over there beyond that western horizon, beneath the setting sun, but the warm and brilliance are like a mini vacation, the kind where you don’t dream of being anywhere else.

Somewhere below the surface of the snow there is network of life, voles, moles, mice and rabbits. Well, the rabbits are under the deck and the mice are somewhere in our ceiling. I found a field mouse frozen in one of my plastic garden storage containers that I’d left outside. The evidence surrounding him suggested he was cold and trying to build a shelter before freezing to death. He had gathered a large leaf from the Korean ninebark and then a bit of dried brown grass, but the task was too overwhelming and when I found him he had his little paws clutched to his chest. The sight of something so small and vulnerable can break your heart in a second.

There is so little difference in what the bunnies under the bird feeder or the birds at the bird feeder for that matter, or the mice want from what it is we all want — basic food and shelter, sustenance, and from what I can tell, company.  For some strange reason we have parked ourselves at the top of the “foodchain,” and have never looked back. It is not easy, at all, to watch the circle of life, as a participant, but participate we must with our fauna-colleagues. To stay safely and dispassionately on the sidelines might work for a while, but at some point you may surprise yourself by recognizing the sad shape of defeat against a harsh winter, the content demeanor of a well-fed stomach, or the exuberance and surprise expressed by a leaping deer, or the gait of happy dogs on a warm spring day.

To Do with Time

I had meant to take a picture of this tree just last week when it was fully ablaze with autumn colour. I planted it about five years ago, only ever expecting that it might live one season to the next, but it is growing to an admirable height for a dwarf tree, and it is truly eye catching with its intense orange surrounded by browns and greens and dark purples.

I could describe it and it might be just as well, it would force me to use words instead of pictures. When I drove through a little collection of homes this weekend, smaller than even a village, one of the properties was coated in bright yellow as if someone had sprayed-painted the whole place; the trees were still covered and now the grass and even parts of the old brick house were plastered with yellow leaves. It was magnificent.

A new friend who I had meant to see and spend time with, enjoying talking about gardening and weather and various other topics we have in common, now lies, ill and, from what I understand, barely able to converse. I thought of her the moment I saw my lingering leaves.

Her husband, another new friend, had passed away in the spring, and I had told my self to give his wife some time and space before seeing her. Likely the last thing a bereaved person wants is time and space. “I had meant to,” amounts to nothing when we don’t get a second chance.

For now I have wonderful memories of the time I shared with both of them. Her husband planting ideas in my head about how I should plan for my future, and her, sharing her plantings, her extremely dry and too clever wit, her honesty, and all the things that there never seem to be enough of in my life.

Looking back, I have a collection of might-have-beens, that remind me that I was once loved by those whose passing was far to soon. And for my part I was busy moving from city to city, never settled enough to spend time. Even now, I am finally taking the time to say enough is enough. It is time to stop, savour, take the picture and yes, smell the damn flowers, touch their papery petals, be grazed by their thorns infused by their colour and light.

And If I could take that particular garden of their love with me from day to day, I know there would never be a reason to feel sad, alone or lonely.

Dad’s Eulogy

Read at his celebration of life: Saturday September 29th, 2018

I want to start by acknowledging and thanking my sisters Martha and Georgie for taking such good care of Dad for the past year. It’s easy to say thank you but much harder to appreciate the day to day routine of simply making sure that another person is comfortable, engaged and happy, whether you are in the same room with them, or away on an appointment. That has to be something that has occupied a major part of their mental and emotional life for the past year if not longer. I will never be able to thank you enough, or know the wonderful moments shared at Crown Point and in Toronto that made it a pleasure and that much more painful recently.

Most of us remember Dad’s friend Benny Proulx and the last place he lived, by Billings Bridge, before he passed away. He referred to it as God’s waiting room. Well Dad’s space at Martha’s was really a corner of heaven, with his books, music and a fantastic view of a city where he had made so many memories with us. I felt such comfort this year knowing Dad was in such a warm place.

And also Mary Jane and Pam did a wonderful job of indulging my dad before that with great social activity here in Ottawa –– hockey games, movies, Mad Men evenings and dinners with a ton of laughs and stories, and as Dad would say a lot of lies.

I know all of us are hurting right now, and many feel like we are more part of a bad dream than a sad reality.

But the good news is the wonderful tapestry of love that has become the backdrop to our lives as you look around the room. I am blessed with amazing nieces and nephews all because of Dad.

Dad was unconventional. I think we can agree on that. One of my earlier memories of Dad is on a car trip to the cottage, and a field we would pass regularly in the evening after seeing a drive-in movie. In the field were tall antennae, each with a red light on the top. We’d ask why the lights were there. To which he would reply so the planes don’t fly into the poles. But why are the poles there, Charlie or Georgie would ask, and he’d reply, to keep the lights on top. This conversation would go around in circles for many trips.

And more recently when words became superfluous he could tell you everything with a wink or a frown.

I will never float in another body of tropical water without thinking of Dad and our first trip to Barbados and how happy he was, surrounded by his kids as we got tossed around in the surf at Sand Acres. I remember us returning to Canada from one such trip, laden with way too many clinking bottles (Charlie literally had a suitcase of rum) and wearing all kinds of stuff that we’d bought, and the customs officer asked Dad if there was anything the family would like to declare. Dad was bright red from 5 hours of the drink trolley and looked at the customs agent stone face and said, “No.” To which the agent replied “you mean your whole family spent two weeks in Barbados and you didn’t buy anything?” “No,” Dad said. The customs officer rolled his eyes and let us all through. There were other trips too, like twenty-one times to Expo ‘67, a drive out to Prince Edward Island, a drive to Florida where Dad smoked an entire humongous dollar-store cigar I’d given him, on New Years Eve, and then frequent drives to Canton New York for Sunday lunch after church! Why not it’s just over there.

You can’t mention Dad without mentioning his love for music: We all have different memories of the music Dad brought to our lives, I remember Mendelssohn’s violin concerto and Bruch’s Scottish fantasy that lulled me to sleep in the basement.

Decades later when Dad and I went to the NAC, one of many times there, we listened to Barber’s Adagio for strings –– if you don’t know it listen to it, you’ll recognize it. I watched Dad, with his eyes closed, and knew even then, that it was a special moment and that I would treasure long after Dad was gone.

And Dad has probably witnessed more bad and good theatre than anyone in the English speaking world. He sat through numerous school concerts, ballet recitals, hockey games and ice shows. Dad was there with Mom and he would give out his characteristic single cough just as the curtain rose or the puck dropped, to let you know exactly where he was sitting.

And no, he never taught me how to throw a ball or throw a punch for that matter. Dad wasn’t exactly adept or coordinated, when it came to using tools. In fact as a toddler from watching dad smash his hand more than once, I thought a hammer was called a Jesus Christ. But he tirelessly drove me and Martha to swimming practice, Georgie to Ballet, Charlie to hockey, and on occasion he’d remember to pick us up. Not a word of complaint at 5:30 on minus 30 degree mornings. We’d all ski with him at Mont Ste. Marie on Sundays, and sail with him on the Ottawa River.

I have a couple of airplane stories. Many kids have memories of plane-watching with their dads. I never did this. Instead Dad took me to Toronto at a very young age in an Air Canada Viscount. Kids would have eaten at Fran’s, but I ate at the Bombay Bicycle Club, with grown ups and other lawyers. Not bad for a ten year old.

For my seventeenth birthday Dad had one of his friends take us up in a small piper Cherokee, we flew over the Gatineau and up towards the Laurentians. Dad sat in the back and watched while I shared the controls with his friend.

Now, we all know Dad could be forgetful or had trouble with less important details. A couple of years after the flight over Quebec, while I was working at Binks and Chilcott, I took up flying lessons. I told Dad and asked him not to tell Mom or she’d worry. She found out anyway when the instructor had to reschedule a lesson and phoned our place. I remember finding her crying in her office, upset that I hadn’t told her. Then I told her that Dad knew. Not a good idea. Off I went for my lesson and when I returned that night she was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. She had confronted my dad about the secret, but he had no idea that I had told him I was taking flying lessons.

I know we all have our best memories of time spent with Dad and one in my mental file is an afternoon at the cottage, a few decades ago. Dad was standing in the water and I was sitting on the dock –– one of those classic still, hot, and sunny Ottawa River afternoons, and we were drinking those great unibroue beers from Quebec and talking about simple things. I remember this because I said to dad “maybe this is as good as it gets,” which wasn’t such a bad thing, in fact it was a gift to have time stop like that and just enjoy the stillness of the afternoon with Dad.

And when we weren’t being silent Dad had great stories from his challenging childhood in Ottawa, to his attempts to enlist, to backing our rental car into a ditch as Martha, Mom, Dad and I were about to board the ferry to the Isle of Skye, or the time Gerogie called him silly old jolly old daddy running around the kitchen like an egg, or the time Charlie—I can’t tell that story in this crowd. It wasn’t as much the story as the way his face lit up when he told them.

As you’ll see in family pictures, Dad loved our dog Julie from the first time that she untied his shoelaces as a pup. He’d take her with him on his Saturday errands, to the office, and various chores. When they got home at the end of the day they both smelled like they’d been smoking cigars. He loved her dearly and devotedly. When she finally became ill after her long life, the day before she died, Dad got down on the living floor with her and wept.

Dad protected us by chasing bats around the cottage porch with a broom, and really protected us by providing a warm home, and filling in the blank spaces in the background, doing things like walking Julie after everyone had gone to bed, or sleeping in my bed when thunder storms or bad dreams forced me to wedge myself between him and mom. One winter night on the 401 heading to Toronto we were marveling at all the cars in the ditch, soon realizing we were driving on sheer ice. As the car swerved 180 degrees side to side and we stared up into the face of a transport truck driver, dad put his hand on my arm. “We’re okay,” he said. And I knew we were.

I remember rendezvousing with him at the train station in Bordeaux and there we were on the upper mezzanine, and he pointed out mom on the main floor sitting with their bags, she looked up and waved and Dad and I waved and then we looked at each other and smiled. Didn’t need to say a word.

I know we all wish it could go on forever, and Dad would get up and down that hill to the Ottawa river and have one more swim before dinner with Martha’s gang, one more trip out to Vancouver to see Charlie and the west coast gang, maybe we’d all circumnavigate north America in a camper, one more nuit blanches with Georgie’s bunch, one more trip down south to bob in the surf with all of us, one more dinner and show at the NAC with Mary Jane. I hoped someday to take him on a scotch tasting trip across Scotland. It was Dad who said “life goes on,” and I know that his life will go on. I will learn more about him from Martha, Charlie, Georgie and you, and it will fill out the picture, make it that much clearer, sweeter and easier. His gift to us was his nature, that is what he taught us, just a gentle nature that set an example of how one should live one’s life, what should and shouldn’t be taken seriously, how to treat people, and how precious a gift life is, and how good a story remembered can be.

Low Pressure

You wake sometimes with that ache in the side of your head or a feeling like you drank a bottle of cheap wine the night before, when all you had was a glass of water and a banana. There is something about living in the east that makes winter more of an adventure to be lived than a season to be endured.

Growing up, winter was full of activity, some planned and some accommodated for because of winter’s temperament. And now that I am back in the east I relish those feelings of impending crises –– the approach of a cold front, the anticipation of a blizzard.

No, it is not as joyful a process for those who have to endure power outages, bursting pipes, little food and no fireplace to hunker down around.

But the cold gives me an excuse to find a reward for enduring the chilly fingers, the draft around my neck when I forget my scarf, the transition of outside to inside and the reward of hot tea, or a moment to collect myself and to find warmth.

When I think back, I see snowy Halloweens, and more recently, an end of November Christmas parade with feet of snow on the ground and some serious sub-zero temperatures. I remember also, the weather man on television around dinner time, who drew lines and curves and triangles across a board to explain the comings and going of cold fronts, low pressure areas, and massive things that would swoop up or down the board, headed for us.

My mother was from Outlook Saskatchewan, and when the weather man said “the outlook for tomorrow” I would run to the kitchen “mom, mom, he said outlook,” and she would come running, drying her hands, shushing us all. I thought she was gathering information about her home town when in fact she just wanted to know what next to expect. Would it be rubber boots and rain coats, or snow suits and mitts?With a toss of the chalk into the air, the signal was given for dinner to start, or for the television to be shut off.

Up There


We walk on a road that is down below our land. The road is lined with deciduous trees growing out of the rich soil, and our land is clay and rock dotted with steadfast red cedar or, more poetically, juniper trees.

There is a feeling of being carried aloft when you crane your neck and stare straight up over your head at the lean maples. Not sure how there can be a feeling, as such, or what brings it about, if I didn’t learn it from somewhere.

In a few days the leaves will be pulled from their branches as we endure wind, rain, and storms to usher in change and eventually winter. We’ll still venture down, through the snowy lanes and forest to this road, in the dead of winter, freezing fingers, grey clouds of breath, to hear the crack and crackle of these same branches overhead, as they clatter from wind driven winter forces.

And on our own piece of land, when I find time for stillness, I watch as the junipers seem to lean in to listen or watch me. Not that I am the centre of their universe, no, but we seem in some strange way to be holding a kind of curved communion. What do they hear? What do they see? Do they get me as I chase Hugo in circles around their base?

I ask, who listened like this? Who reached for the sky like this.

Radiant Shimmering Light

Radiant Shimmering LightRadiant Shimmering Light by Sarah Selecky
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I didn’t want this story to end. Selecky holds up a mirror to our obsession with social media and self marketing tools and leaves one torn between when to laugh and when to cry. Relationships are threatened, compromised or created by the ever-present need to be out there, to garner more followers and to be validated in cyber space.
I found, as I have in the past with Selecky’s writing, that she manages to create prose that works on the reader’s sub-conscious; you know you’re been affected, but how? That is her secret, that is her genius and gift as a writer.
She also has a sharp, wry and very astute sense of humour, that immediately connects with the reader. I know it was great as it continues to stay with me.

View all my reviews

In The Balance

I took a picture of this butterfly this morning, balancing on the end of a piece of grass, gently and irregularly opening and closing his wings. Like my father, I can’t get a clear shot. He is in and out of focus. Will the monarch have the energy to gather with the others at the edge of Lake Ontario and make the thousands of kilometres trek to Mexico? Or is that something for the others. Have they already gathered on this cool September morning.

I am sitting beside my father as he sleeps, restlessly in his hospital bed. He had a couple of strokes last week. It’s been a long week and the long drives have been spent thinking about the past.

As a little boy the only way I could hold my father’s hand was to take hold of his finger with my little hand, to keep him close. And in the car, he would lean forward onto the steering wheel to have me grab him from behind and pull him back off of the steering wheel. I can’t imagine what it felt like for him to have my little hands holding, clutching, pulling. That was our language and our vocabulary.

I’ve brought some enlarged photographs to the hospital for him to see, when he wakes. They are pictures of our favourite place on the Ottawa River. I remember, years ago, maybe in my twenties or thirties––my days of prodigal son long behind––one hot and sunny afternoon, we stood waist high in the river, by the dock, drinking beers from “the French side” ––Quebec. We talked about simple things and perhaps happiness. Out loud, I said to my father, “maybe this is as good as it gets,” only because it was so perfect to be in that moment with my dad, with the sun seeming to hang motionless in the middle of the afternoon.

I am blessed with these stills and vignettes from my life. I suppose our lives have been complicated, interesting, challenging, but never boring. My father is a bright man, but our times together have always been filled with simplicity and frequently silent. With little need to speak.

Here, now, watching him, there is so little that needs to be said, it was spoken in those moments years before.

The butterfly surprised me this morning, and it wasn’t until much later that I saw his little balancing act with so much familiarity and recognition.

An Emancipation Day Query: What if Trump were Black?

A colleague (I don’t have many who think this way) recently bemoaned the fact that his cab driver “I think he was Lebanese or something,” was not happier and in a more positive mood upon receiving a twenty per cent tip. “You’d think the guy could be a little happier about living in this country.”

I held my tongue since we have descended down this rabbit hole before, whether it be injustices of native land claim treaties, building out-of-town compounds for the homeless or the intricacies of increasing minimum wage. I tend to change the subject or give an informed view quoted from a respected publication, although I don’t arm wrestle to the bitter end. I usually just say something like “well that’s just stupid,” and like a benign golden retriever he backs off to find another bone to chew.

I was on a café terrace recently with my dog, catching up with a dear friend. A man in the far corner offered free-of-charge comments towards our corner of the terrace. Regarding my dog he had this to say: “no wonder Disney called the dog Goofy.” I thought about what he said, trying to find some redeeming kindness in it. Naïve, as I am, to some people’s innate crabbiness.

My dear friend and I continued to chat while my dog “Hugo” graciously accepted pats and compliments, lapped some water and rejected a piece of rhubarb square I offered him. He barked intermittently––the kind of bark that says I am here. The kind of bark that is isolated, happens once every few minutes and no one pays much attention to.

The man in the corner––I’ll call him the ‘dog whisperer’––continued to offer his sage unsolicited advice to the terrace: “He’s bored, he just wants to play.” (Thank you, after seven years I think I figured that one out). I hadn’t seen my friend in ages. My well-exercised, love-of-my-life, attention getting, centre-of-my-universe dog, in the shade, with water, and all the comforts of life, could suffer for a few moments.

My dear friend, who happens to board, raise and train guide-dogs, said that the man is always offering free-from-the-corner advice on how to treat their latest charge, with no knowledge of seeing-eye-dog training protocol.

This all got me to wondering about explaining the event to my cab-riding colleague. I might take great pleasure in saying something like “A white man, sitting on the terrace this morning was very crabby and didn’t mind interfering in my conversation to advise me on dog rearing protocol. I’m sure he was at least third generation white Canadian and had no reason whatsoever to be so bitter. I mean this country has been so good to him and his ancestors, and he is white after all. He is living in Canada, the greatest country on the earth. What could he possibly have to be cranky about?”

My cab-riding colleague might then look quizzically at me and wonder what the Sam Heck I am talking about. Well think about this. What if the corner of the terrace man had been Lebanese? Or from India or Pakistan? What if he were Native, or Black? Would he be given the same wide berth for bad behavior? I won’t answer that because I have been thinking about it ever since the incident, and it has been bothering me.

What if my cab-riding colleague’s cab driver had been white? Would he have been subjected to the same scrutiny? The same happiness quotient? Might he just be a white guy having a bad day? And what about Trump? What if he were Black? Would he be given the same carte blanche look-the-other way leniency that he seems to get?

Take any of your recent top headlines and change the skin tone, the background, the colour, like I did as a kid with my big sister’s Vogue cut out dolls. See what you come up with.