re: looking at the bunny’s house and their not-so-perfect litterbox habits:
“No more bunnies pooping on the bed.”
Ted talked… about pygmy giraffes.
Friends and family sometimes ask me “Does Ted talk to you more than he talks to the rest of us?”, in reference to my often silent husband. My usual response is “Yes… relatively speaking”.Ted possesses a nearly-unique and valuable quality in that he listens more than he speaks. He also waits for an invitation to share his opinion, and rarely interrupts others in order to make his views known. If you want to hear Ted talk, make space for his voice, and/or steer the conversation towards the bizarre. Here are some samples of what Ted says, when Ted talks…
“I was going to tell you about two things I learned today….
Wait. No. There was only one. One thing. That’s right, I only learned one thing today.” (smiles)
“And that is that there might be such a thing as pygmy giraffes. But also that there might not be.”
(puts hand at couch level)
“But if there are pygmy giraffes, the babies would only be this high. And that is what I learned.”
Bees in snowdrifts
Chelsea and I went skiing today. I had wanted to ski earlier but was busy, then it rained, etc etc but today looked like soft fluffy snow and mild temperatures, so out we went. It was very sticky snow, so sticky that I couldn’t easily push my skis forward and ended up walking them most of the time. Snowshoes might have been easier.
The forest looks very – open – because there is no underbrush in the winter and many of the trees have come down. In some places you can see quite far. I had never really considered that Cora Kirton’s house backed on to that forest but now that it is owned by her grandchild I did notice; they have turned it into some kind of compound with fencing and strange posts. Apparently they have large dogs to keep in or something to keep out. The fence came up quite close to the trail and had posts with big No Trespassing signs, almost like something from my nightmares. It is a very inhospitable thing to have showing from the forest. But the forest itself was quiet and fresh, with drifts and heavy snow-laden branches and deer tracks. Chelsea found some places where the deer had peed and made herself busy sniffing and digging and learning all about these most important smells.
The trail going up into the bush itself was almost completely blocked so I had to press through branches and do zig-zag detours around fallen trees and new saplings. I decided I didn’t feel like trying to ski down the slight inclines over the fallen logs and all the little glacial erratics like I used to. I didn’t really want to fall so I side-stepped down. Chelsea bounded all around and disappeared at times and reappeared all snowy and happy with gleaming shiny eyes and a big tongue-out smile. Her pawprints are so huge. I think the pads of her paws and the webbing between her toes actually helps buoy her up on the snow a bit. She doesn’t sink in the way the deer hooves do.
We didn’t see any movement, and I didn’t find any forms. A few times I had to say ‘hup, hup!’ loudly to keep Chels from going to close to the highway. But she was well behaved. I fell once trying to slowly go down the little hill before the Big Rock and lay there for a while looking up at the tall swaying pines. Beautiful. I would have stayed longer but I hadn’t any water repellent pants and the snow was wet.
I went up the Big Rock and looked at my meditation place from days gone by. I also looked down the incredible incline where we used to sled. Quite intimidating. It would be suicide now without removing some very large mature spruce trees that are just gorgeous. I miss those good times. Will I have strength, stamina, energy enough to do these things with my children? Will dad see this? The questions make my heart quiver and ache.
I de-skiied and walked back the way I came and just wandered through the bush to get back to the main trail because so many trees were down. I did ski properly down the gentle long hill, all the way, not too quickly. The meadow is no longer a regenerating field, it is just about a forest proper; more than a thicket. It’s hard to recognize. The bee enclave was open and I went in to look at it. The hives are all wrapped up in dark paper and tied with string like packages delivered from above and dropped or set down temporarily, awaiting someone to come and open them. There was no buzzing. I looked down and saw a dark little shadow, and realized it was a bee in the snow. I brushed it off and picked it up and tried to warm it with my breath, thinking perhaps it was sleeping. I would like to imagine this, bees asleep, blanketed with a dusting of snow, dreaming of fragrant flowers and waving grasses, honeyed aromas arising from golden meadows and the busy-ness of their hives. But the bee did not wake up. I lifted the top of the hive to see if it was open, to see if anyone was groggily moving around, hoping to see the inner workings and to put the bee back in, hoping it would revive and drowsily take its place amongst its sister drones. But the lid was just sitting there on top of the paper-wrapped hive. Chelsea came to see what it was about. I don’t know if her nose smelled any lingering hints of the tasty sweet treats manufactured in these earliest of factories. Her movement revealed more dark specks in the snow, and I realized that everywhere the snow was disturbed, more motionless bees showed through. It was a still, sad feeling, beautiful and cold. I realize that their lives are short and that their little beings cycle quickly, affected by the uncompromising weather in drastic ways. I have seen the bodies of pollinators lying in groups in the fall. I remember the first time I saw this, on the sidewalk near our first apartment, walking home from university. I was startled and a bit scared, worried for the wasps and wondering what it meant. Did something mass murder them? Possibly – people kill them all the times, in multiple mean methods. But these wasps had just finished their lives, dead of cold or exhaustion or old age after a short intense life of hard work. Do they receive a reward? Do they die knowing they kept their colony alive? Are they remembered and revered in the dances of the next generation of drones?
It was strange to think of all these bees lying silent under a thin snowy blanket throughout this meadow, throughout this young forest. Presumably they can find their way out through the paper packaging, this dark gift wrap on their hives. For a while I entertained the thought that they had been here like this all winter, but of course that couldn’t be; they lay within the snow. This just happened. It was mild and raining for the last several days, followed by thick fluffs falling lightly, then heavily from the sky. They must have awoken and come out, hoping to find buds or water or a sign that spring was coming. Why didn’t they return to their beds before it got too cold to fly? Did the temperature really snap that quickly? Were they out of food and too low on energy? Did desperation drive them out or did curiosity coax them? Could they find their way back through the paper or was it a barrier? Did they land on the snow and then stiffen with the cold, weighted down by flakes? I hope they felt no pain. I hope they drifted off into the drifts. I hope they were placed there gently by the hand of God, tucked in to sleep, their tiny soul-sparks lit up to float upwards like glowing smoke-bits from a camp fire whose embers have been stirred. I hope God keeps these bees, these good, dedicated, hard workers, takes them to a place of endless flowers, an abundance of nectar, plentiful honey, dizzying dances, and all the things that bees like.
They were so tiny. So fragile and perfect and lovingly put together. Not menacing at all. I wondered at it. I did think for a minute that it might be scary, realizing I was surrounded by the wee corpses of tiny stinging insects. What if I fell? Do the stings work if they are dead? What if it suddenly warmed up? Would they arise, angry at the imposition and intrusion? But no, they were just there, layers of snow and bees and snow, quiet. Quiet. Not just by the hives, but quite far, half way to the edge of the forest, perhaps further. Bees in snow.
I wish I had taken pictures. Why didn’t I? Maybe it wasn’t the time. Maybe they didn’t want me to. I wish I had a way to save the simultaneous crispness and softness of the snow against the little wings and antennae and fuzzy bodies, the legs all tucked in, curled up in my glove with the sparkle and shine of new-fallen crystals on just-melted flakes. I wish to remember the silence of the hives against the backdrop of feathery, rich deepest green needles of the emerging trees in the baby forest. I wish the one bee I picked up and carefully set on my camera bag had made it back to the house. I wanted to try again to warm it up, just hoping. When I was younger I would have tried to gather them all, to revive them, tuck them in, hope to restart their little bee-selves, like the time I brought home a duck egg I found in a barn. I refused to believe it wasn’t viable, tried to warm it and turn it and hatch it.
I don’t know if I miss the hope and insistence of believing we can help them all, or if I embrace the peace of accepting that they have gone and are now a beautiful, graceful scattering on and under the snow. I do know that I am grateful I saw them, grateful that skis, poles, dog paws unearthed them, that I was able to know about their existence and their passing, and that I know where they lay to rest and where they now stay.
An Earth-Day Cake (Part II)
There are many kinds of dirt, some dirtier than others, and the plate had held not just dirt, but enriched organic matter. It had been carefully cultivated, fed, watered, and turned over the better part of a year, in a spot selected for high sunshine content and the appropriate amount of aeration.
About 15 years ago, or perhaps even 20, my father brought home a large carton containing chunks of heavy-duty black plastic. I don’t think anybody thought much of it, nor did anyone question it when he began assembling said chunks of black plastic into a larger object in the backyard. After all, this was Dad, famous for bringing home large and impractical (okay, sometimes practical) objects to be deposited in the yard for indefinite periods of time. Occasionally these items would be tinkered with, assembled, disassembled, or moved, but more often they would just be mown around and/or filled with other objects of similarly indiscernible value and/or purpose. As it turns out, this particular instance was a bit different, particularly in the sense that Mom approved… and so did I. Michael, I believe, was indifferent. The large black plastic object was assembled into a composter and strategically placed at the end of the dog kennel. Outside of the dog kennel, that is. It received a lot of southern exposure and a fair bit of west-slanting sunlight as well, back in the days before our oak trees were massive shading behemoths. This composter was, and remains, a magical box of mystery.
Anything we put in it just…. disappeared. Into thin air. “Aren’t composters supposed to create something?”, I wondered every so often as I opened it up, batted away the hordes of small six-legged flying things emerging from it, and threw in kitchen scraps. Other people in the know, cool folks into the environmental scene spoke of the great fertilizers they emptied from their composters on a regular basis, enhancing their gardens and tomato plants. But not ours. Ours was perhaps the most efficient composter in the northern hemisphere, gulping up loads of scraps, leaves, and unreasonable amounts of grass clippings the summer I got carried away with raking. * Despite unbalanced amounts of green and brown layers and owners who disdained to turn or stir the compost most of the time, that black box was unstoppable. Not to mention the fact that it was bottomless. No, really. I imagined for a while that perhaps Dad had dug a large hole under it before installing the composter, sort of like an outhouse for vegetable matter, but this was not the case.
* actually, there were several of these years. I have a bit of OCD and occasionally would become obsessed with raking all of the lawn after it was mown. Ours is not a small lawn, and blisters ensued. This would happen not just at our place, but anywhere I saw a rake and piles of grass to be gathered. Finally one year my parents convinced me that it was good for the lawn to have the grass clippings left on it. But every year when my neighbour’s tree drops crabapples on the postage stamp yard of our rented apartment, I pick up a rake and go to town. Blisters ensue.
An Earth-day cake (part 1)
It was 10:57 pm on Earth Day and I called home, waking up my long-suffering parents who were already snug in bed. My dad answered cheerfully, if groggily, and asked what I was up to.
“I want to know how long I should bake dirt for.” I said. “Oh,” said Dad, “I’ll ask your mother.” As he tapped her on the shoulder and told her the phone was for her, he asked “What are you baking?” “An Earth-Day cake“, I said. “Oh, good idea“, said Dad, completely unfazed.
This quick snippet of conversation tells me two things: a) that my parents are very tolerant, and b) they are used to their odd daughter’s equally odd behaviour. But they should be. After all, they raised me, and heaven knows that they’re unusual, too.
Continuing the conversation, Dad asked Mom how long I should bake dirt for. She didn’t even ask why but just answered “2o minutes at 200 degrees” – all this before Dad had even mentioned the Earth Day cake, which he did, happily, saying that it was a great improvement over mud pies.
He passed the phone to mom, after giving me quick updates about the store and the backyard and a recent outdoor show. Mom guessed what I was up to with the soil. She is famous for having a plate of dirt that sits in random places in the living room. My brother and I, used to some of the odder objects in my parents’ home (that is another series of posts entirely), had ignored this dirt plate for many months. We are only home every so often for family occasions, and the plate of dirt had been moved out of the way several times when we were preparing for special dinners. This Thanksgiving, however, marked a time when I would be meeting Mike’s new girlfriend, (although my parents had already met her and unbeknownst to me she had already visited their home) and I was helping to clean up and decorate. * Now, I didn’t want her to think we were too strange, and I wanted to avoid any unhappy accidents whereby a special guest tried to appreciate the traditional Thanksgiving fare and mistook the dirt plate for a platter of… something, ending in tragedy and humiliation for all. Besides, the dirt plate was in the way, occupying important space on the server. So, with the best of intentions, I unceremoniously dumped the dirt over the side of the porch, onto the pile of previous decomposing matter. We have a wee pile beside the porch where we dump old bouquets, dead houseplants, and the like. The dirt ended up here, and its plate went into the dishwasher. I continued festooning. **
Mom was very upset.
As it turns out, that dirt was important. That dirt had purpose. It was meant for something bigger. As it turns out, I had interfered with dirt destiny.
* It is never a real holiday unless I drag in some greenery and festoon everything. Mike says he doesn’t like decorations but I know that secretly, deep down he loves my festive garlands.
** This includes traversing large tracts of land, trimming greenery from various locations around Powassan. On this occasion I not only went into the woods behind our place, but also took the dog with me up the Powassan mountain to Glendale Heights, and up another way into The Pines, collecting branches of coloured leaves and garlands of evergreens. I later complained that my large vase was TOO SMALL, and Krizsanta observed that my solution to this problem was to cram MORE, not LESS, into the vase. It was spectacular.
Environmental festivals
Not many years ago the Earth Day activities in Ottawa consisted of a small group of businesses, organizations, and volunteer groups gathering on Sparks Street to promote sustainable living. The event was small, pedestrian-friendly, and outdoors. We were there rain or shine, and the weather ranged from snow one year to sunburns another (of course, being a redhead means that I can be sunburnt regardless of weather conditions). It was a cheerful day, with some regulars coming out – the Sierra Club, who organized it for a while, Arbour the Environmental Store, Seventh Generation, and the Raging Grannies were some we often saw there. We came to recognize faces from different faith communities, student activists from the universities and other schools, and representatives from some government agencies. Ted and I first came to promote Keen For Green, an environmental camp we ran at Carleton University. Other years we came as ourselves, CanaDiana UnlimiTed, to provide free nature and ecoeducation activities for passersby.
We took a break from some of that while Ted was working fulltime and I was back at university as a fulltime student. In the meantime, the environmental movement in Ottawa grew. Now the EcoStewardship Fair is an established event, usually held at the RA Centre on Riverside, and attended by many. It is a much larger, more visible, and well-attended fair, attracting people from around the city and featuring many more displays and attractions than the little group of us on Sparks Street.
Still, I miss a bit of the old feel. I miss the Raging Grannies holding up their knitted social support net, and chanting their marvellous poems and songs about peace, the environment, and social justice. I miss the colourful sidewalk chalk masterpieces made by artists and children to educate and illustrate about eco-issues. I miss the community and the handmade signs. Don’t get me wrong, the new fair is great – the 100-mile buffet was fantastic, the advertising good, the booths numerous. However, there is an increasing feeling that this event is not about passion, but about presentation. The atmosphere is a little less cheery and a little more dreary. I guess I am such a naturalist at heart that I am almost put off by the professionally designed logos, the slick backdrops, the sleek flyers and TV screens and plastic name badges. I prefer more joy, more hand-created artwork, less linear ways of expressing care for the planet and concern for its people. I also missed the interfaith eco-spiritual aspect this year. Perhaps I would have enjoyed it more if I could have explored some of the speeches (I was working at a booth the whole day) or if there was some natural light around. I find it very difficult to be in a large rectangular room with artifical lighting and crowds of people echoing everywhere – it exhausts me. I certainly felt this even more at the Go Green trade show, where I was a bit dismayed by some of the corporate feel. At least that one had natural light and a bit more of an open feel to it. I certainly am still enthusiastic about fairs, and enjoy meeting the hundreds who stop by the booth. I love taking a wee break and swinging around to check out the booths and displays, seeing and touching and tasting some of the wares (great roasted portabella mushrooms!). But I have more fun at fairs where there is singing, and wind and water and sun to deal with – even it if it is less comfortable – where people can camp out for the day, have a picnic, listen to some music, and let their kids and dogs roam around. (Lanark’s Art of Being Green, let the doggies in!!!)
http://keenforgreen.carleton.ca/
Fresh air
It is always so difficult to tear myself away when it is time to leave the North and head back to the city after a holiday. Here at my parents’ home, the air is SO fresh, SO clear, SO crisp. The sun is brighter, the sky bluer, the silence more profound. Six deer made an appearance in our backyard, coming and going silently, slipping into and out of the forest to partake of the deer feed Dad left out for them. A nuthatch said its nasal little song earlier this morning, and chickadees sing and flit about the trees. I was startled by the clear sharp call of a blue jay whose bright feathers stood out in contrast against the yard as its call did against the silence. Our resident chipmunk has woken for spring and is busy weaving in and around the woodpile. Chelsea, our big chocolate lab, is content to watch them all – though her enthusiastic greeting for the deer resulted in a flash of white tails and alarmed deer making a beeline for the tree cover.
Alas, we must leave this place and go back to the land of many people and fewer trees, where the light seems somehow duller and the fresh air just a little less fresh.
