Andrew Binks

We live on what is technically an island in Lake Ontario about two hours east of Toronto. One of the beaches, about a 10 km stretch of lovely white sand, faces west towards Toronto, and most of the approaching weather. When I walk the beach I find, tangled in the grass, these remnants of foil balloons, let go from some child’s fist or some drunken wedding guest’s sticky fingers, as they turn to have one more dance before deciding they’ve had too much fun. The balloons leave amidst whoops and squeals and lazy laughter from backyards of tight Victorian homes, in neighbourhoods with names like Riverdale or Cabbagetown, or broad brand new back yards laid with perfect turf, in North York or Bramalea. They fly and float east and finally descend into the water or onto the beach and collect themselves, still bright with colour, but weak of inflation, and breathe only with the passing breezes. They disappear over time, whether it is under the sand or over another dune and into the dry blasted tundra of thorns and thistles and bleached white bones, visited by no one.

I was walking along the beach last weekend and found this guy floundering at water’s edge. I had rescued the odd monarch from the cruel fate of drowning in waves and wet sand. I was convinced that this moth/ butterfly was dead but wanted to give him a proper place to be displayed, somewhere on higher ground. After taking him onto my finger, and feeling no response, I was amazed at how sensitive my finger tip was to the feeling of life coming back into his little legs. He clutched the end of my finger, and, I suppose decided to trust my intentions. I am convinced that, at some point, animals do make that decision to trust–chickadees decide to eat out of my hand (because the feeder is empty). I took him to a wavering leaf above the beach where he could dry off and at least spend a few hours in the sun, whether they were his last, or just a recuperation before making a pilgrimage over Lake Ontario. Then I grabbed my camera…

There are times in the early morning when I can achieve a no mind state fairly quickly. I can close my eyes and see the surface of that thick sea of eternity. Other mornings monkey mind won’t let me be, and I jump from thought to thought: Why didn’t I get everything done yesterday? What will I say today if so-and-so rubs me the wrong way? This coffee tastes weak. Why does my back hurt? Will I ever hear from that publisher?

The past few mornings when I have been stretching my sore back and my stiff arms, or sitting in the garden, the bunny has appeared. I tend to think I’ve already startled him by this point, and he will be taking off, but on the contrary, I seem to have piqued his curiosity. (Do I know what a bunny thinks?)

Each morning he has taken the opportunity to come closer, nibble on weeds or grass and then wander through the garden. He pauses and turns his head sideways to get a good look at me. I wonder, is this my spirit guide? My animal partner? He certainly causes me to focus my attention and leave monkey mind off where it belongs. I wanted to photograph him this morning, but he must have sensed something was up with all the beeping and bleeping of the camera, so he left, casually, but he did depart. He was in this shot, seconds before I took it. In fact he is in the photo but he is somewhere there in the grass, I can tell because the movement gives his location away.

There is something about getting up early, putting on the kettle, grinding the coffee beans and then paying a visit to the plants outside the front door. It doesn’t always happen that way, but it should. The land is flat and I can see the sun rise orange from the bathroom window. These days the mornings are still and warm. I check the bird feeders and the birdbath. Sometimes the garden has to go neglected–has to wait until later for a good soaking or weeding. But more often than not it gets my attention, these days–deadlines must be extended, submissions delayed. The garden isn’t as much demanding as it demands, if that makes sense.

It seems all the sunflowers I grew from seedlings on our kitchen counter somehow didn’t make it, after being transplanted. But the seeds I carried in my pocket and randomly poked into the ground have taken hold with a vengeance, and if the growing season continues we may be able to use these things for firewood to get us through the winter. The funny thing is they have been the least demanding of water. Perhaps they have found our aquifer and are drinking the well dry. I may have to name them “Audrey” and “Audrey 2” if they get much bigger. They certainly have personalities and do the happy dance when I spray them with the hose.

I’m not sure when they arrived, but on the entire six acres these few golden shoots of some kind of grain–barley, wheat, oats–have made their presence known. Regardless of endless extraction of stones from soil, and planting of perennials, and construction of stone walls, porches, pergolas and potted pansies, these few strands of grain found themselves catching the sun every evening, shimmering above and beyond it all.

Last year two trenches were dug, one for electrical and one for the well. We’ve come to believe that the soil turned up from the five foot deep cuts churned dormant prehistoric seeds which have now woken, planted themselves and are covering the five hundred foot length of previously scarred land. Some of the flora looks like it came out of my childhood Dr. Seuss books: curly-cue blue petalled long stalks of fantasy plants, that open at dawn and close in the full sun.

I also planted seeds to grow and keep the deer and wild turkeys fed with wild kale, turnips and clover. But for all the growth, these golden strands are one of a kind.

I have wanted to do this for some time, especially since we are living in a bit of a rainshadow. I had a few ideas floating around in my head, but most of them depended on what I’d seen and known that a bird bath should be.

We have a small area of gravel on the property, where we park one of the cars when we need to, and I decided it would be the perfect spot to shape out a concave mould for my birdbath idea.

I dug a shallow depression and used a concrete mix from the hardware store. The bag of concrete weighed about 60 pounds and more disagreeable than a sack of potatoes. I mixed it in a plastic tub with the measured amount of water. I put broad leafed weeds to good use; lined the depression with a plastic bag and leaves, and then poured the wet concrete into the depression. I pressed another depression into the top of the concrete and covered the surface with more leaves, plastic and gravel, and a large stone to maintain the shape. Two days later the concrete cake was baked, and I peeled away the lining and heaved the bowl onto a stack of stones by our garden. I look forward to new visitors once the rain stops.

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Sad news from this Ain’t the Rosedale Library.

It may be a tad ambitious, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I am building a raised vegetable garden using the leftovers from the house construction. The pile of earth was delivered a few months ago, during which time weeds have taken root. It’s sandy loam and comes from a forest not too far away. The grizzled old guy who owns the company that takes care of finding and delivering the soil apologized for not screening it, but said that screening would be an extra expense. We agreed the soil is in excellent condition with very few rocks.

I had to lead the dump truck through the trees in order to get the soil dumped in a convenient spot. Now the frame is up and I have placed a special fabric on the ground to prevent weeds from coming through. It looks simple enough — spread the soil from the pile into the boxes — but each wheelbarrowful is like a drop in the bucket.

Between my trip to the Writers Union AGM in Ottawa, and Vancouver to read, we visited a local cooperage and bought an old wine barrel to catch water. There are predictions of a dry summer and we are on a well, so it doesn’t make sense drenching the garden. A big barrel-maker of a guy delivered the barrel and asked me where I wanted it… In the following days I drilled a hole in the top and then sawed enough to then smash the top in with my prized pick-axe. The inside smelled strongly of red wine and the insides were a deep red colour.

In the following days I bought a faucet and a drill bit the size of the faucet screw, and the following morning was up early to drill a hole in the lower section. “Apply goo,” said the barrel maker, which I did. The brass faucet is now intact. I was afraid with all of the sawing, hacking, and drilling that I would unlock some crucial point of tension and the whole thing would explode. (The barrel maker had explained how he makes new barrels, with all the gear and the rings etc, and shaping the wood. It seemed like a large uncomplicated bomb waiting to explode.)

Now, by the edge of our house, where I sawed the drainpipe and guided it towards the barrel, it seems happy enough. However, I am now wondering how to get the water in the barrel–fill it with the hose? We still haven’t had a big downpour.